A Scarlet Heart
by Greenstuff
Summary: Before he ever came to Wonderland, he was Will Scarlet, thief. He never stopped stealing things that didn't belong to him: food, gold, hearts… This is Will's story, from the days in the Enchanted Forest to that fateful day Rabbit asked him to help save Alice from the asylum, and beyond. AU. New Chapters every Sunday (and the occasional Thursday)
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

Cyrus is beautiful, like a prince in a story book. His hair is softer than silk and curls just so at the nape of his neck, or around her fingers. The moment Alice had set eyes on him her heart had skipped three beats just from the strength of his smile. She'd followed that smile to the end of the earth and back again.

Will is anything but beautiful, certainly he's far from the stuff of storybook fantasy. There are his ears for one thing, sticking out from the sides of his head like he's still five years old. But it's not just the ears, his nose is far too big. It juts out of his face and, from vague memories of grandfather, she knows it will only grow bigger with time. And there're his eyes too. They're sort of… buggy. Somehow he always looks just a little surprised. And tired. He always looks so very tired. Alice turns her head to the side and peers at him through half lowered lashes. She thinks he's asleep, it's her turn to sit watch so he should be, but she's half afraid he'll look up and catch her staring anyway.

She doesn't know why she keeps comparing them, Cyrus and Will. It doesn't make sense. Cyrus is her true love. Will is… well, if she's really honest she doesn't quite know what Will is. They're friends, but not friends. He stole from her, they became sort of friends, and she got him his heart back, but then she found Cyrus and lost Cyrus and went back to England and ages passed. She still doesn't know anything about his life in that time, except he apparently had one he wasn't eager to leave behind… and somewhere in that time there was a woman named Anastasia. At least, Alice thinks it was in that time, but she realizes she doesn't just know nothing about what Will did while she was in England, she realizes she doesn't really know anything about him at all.

* * *

_A/N: Mostly, this is a story about Will. I find him completely fascinating as a character and I want to explore a version of his history. The chapters will range in length, but will be significantly longer than the prologue _


	2. Chapter 1

PART I: A TALE OF HEARTBREAK

**Chapter 1**

**The Enchanted Forest**

Checking the trap lines takes up most of Will's days. As usual, he told his mother he was going to school and even walked most of the way to the village before ducking into the woods and circling back. He knows she's just worried about him, and that it's a mother's job to worry about her only child, but even at fourteen years of age, Will Scarlet also knows there's very little money coming in and they will starve if he doesn't do something. Father taught him how to build traps that won't damage the pelts of his catches, and how to hide the traps from the sight so no one walking in the forest will see them. This last bit is the most important of all. Hunting in the forest is forbidden and Maleficent's grounds keeper is not known for his kind, forgiving nature.

Will taught himself about skinning, and tanning hides, and how to cut up the meat so it looks like the scraps Mister Fletcher sells in the market for a half-penny every Sunday so mother would never realize their meat was caught not purchased. His father would probably have taught him all of this when he was 'old enough,' but father is gone. Three years ago there was a knock at the door in the middle of the night and father was taken away.

Mother didn't want to tell Will why father had been taken, but the gossips in the village had no consideration for mother's wishes. Listening outside the tavern and keeping his ears peeled when he walked the streets Will learned that his father was a poacher. The game he and his father had caught so carefully were Maleficent's and catching and killing them was a crime punishable by banishment or death. Six months ago, he had heard the old woman who sells cabbage and rhubarb and other leafy foods Will hates tell her son-in-law, the blacksmith, that Will's father had been beheaded and that Will's mother was to be fined for the full cost of the execution and burial. That same afternoon, Will had begun to reassemble his father's trap line.

He crouches down and quietly opens the trap at his feet, removing the small dead muskrat from the wooden jaws and placing it in the bag slung across his body. Will smiles. Muskrat fur is one of the clothier's favourites, this will fetch a good price. Two or three more catches and he might be able to attend school tomorrow instead of walking the trap line.

Will misses school. He's not the smartest in his class, but he has friends. Or, he used to. Since news of father's execution spread things have been strained. It's part of the reason he spends so much of his days here in the woods. Father taught him well, he could probably clear and rearm the entire trap line in the morning before classes even began. But he doesn't even try. He tells himself he gave up school for the good of his family and that he would go back if he could. Most days he believes the lie. And either way, he misses how it used to be.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed? You know poaching is illegal."

Will's head whips around so quickly he hears wind whistle in his ears and he only just manages not to get his fingers caught as the trap snaps back shut. He glares at the skinny blonde girl whose voice scared him half senseless. "Keep your bloody voice down," he growls. "Do you want the grounds keeper to hear you?"

The girl rolls her blue eyes. "My father isn't here. Maleficent sent him to the village. He won't be back for hours."

Will raises his eyebrows. "Your father is the grounds keeper?" He takes in the loosely curling blonde hair, wide blue eyes, and gently curving pink lips, the picture of innocence, and can't quite wrap his mind around the idea she is related to the dark haired, hard eyed man who took his father away.

"It's complicated."

"I won't ask, if you don't tell your father you saw me." Will replies quickly, seeing a possible escape. They need the muskrat meat and every penny he can earn and save by trapping and skinning animals, which means he needs the small blonde spy to keep her mouth shut. But Will isn't a hard boy, despite the hard life he leads, and he would rather buy her silence with promises than force it through threats. Although, he isn't above the latter. He's done it before and he knows he will probably do it again.

"I won't tell."

"Good," Will says, almost managing to hide his surprise.

"I'm Anastasia, by the way." The blonde walks closer, and holds out a hand for Will to shake.

Will takes it. "Nice to meet you, Anastasia." He does not offer his name in return. She said she wouldn't tell her father, but Will knows people say lots of things they don't mean. He isn't about to trust the daughter of the most hated man in a thousand miles on her word alone. He's just going to have to be even more careful.

"Would you like some of my lunch?" Anastasia asks, holding up a small wicker basket. "I made cranberry tarts this morning, they're quite good. I have lots, and, frankly, you look like you could use something other than muskrat meat."

Will shakes his head no. What he wants is to run in the other direction before he has a chance to say something wrong or make her angry so she tells her father he had been there. "Thank you… but I should get home."

"Okay," Her voice is small and sad, and there is such a look of disappointment in her eyes that Will almost regrets turning her down.

Almost. But Will Scarlet is no fool. He knows full well that accepting food from the daughter of his enemy can only end one way, and what will mother do if Will gets himself arrested? So, despite how much he loves cranberry tarts, and how genuine the disappointed little frown on Anastasia's pretty face appears, he isn't falling into her trap. "See you," Will says awkwardly, stepping back and waving.

"Goodbye, Will Scarlet."

"How did-?" Will asks, freezing mid stride, his heart racing.

She smiles. "Father always goes to town on Wednesdays. He's usually gone from breakfast until sundown," she says as if that answered his question. Then, without another word, she turns and walks away, leaving a stunned Will staring after her.

The next Wednesday, Will half expects Anastasia to be waiting for him when he goes to check the trap lines. When she doesn't appear he tells himself he's glad, but he keeps looking for her week after week and each time she doesn't appear, there is a tiny gnawing pit of disappointment in his stomach.

.

.

.

It's almost a year before Will Scarlet sees Anastasia again, but she sees him every week. She can't say why she doesn't ever step out of the shadows and talk to him again after that first time, but she doesn't. Even when she wants to, like the time he accidentally catches his finger in the trap and she wants desperately to run to his side and offer to bandage it, something holds her back. It isn't that he rejected her; Anastasia is used to rejection. It isn't that she's afraid of being caught, although she probably should be, given her father's legendary temper. It isn't anything she can pin down, and that isn't from lack of lying awake at night wondering; it's just a feeling in the depths of her stomach that she needs to stay out of sight.

Still, though she can't bring herself to step into view, she never misses a Wednesday. She's there, hiding behind the broad leaves of a shadbush, when he catches his first deer; she's there the week he catches nothing at all and sits down on the forest floor and cries from frustration; and she's there the day he gets caught.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: **_I know it's not Sunday, but don't worry, this posting is in addition to my Sunday updates. _

_I will not be watching the new episodes of OUATIW until I complete this fic because I know the writers are going to mess with my head canon by giving us canon back story, so please no spoilers __ Thanks in advance. I hope you enjoy my version of their story. _

**Chapter 2**

That Wednesday, Anastasia rises early. She spends an extra ten minutes brushing her blonde hair until it shines in the weak morning light filtering through the bars on her bedroom window. She chooses her favourite dress, the only one of the five hanging in her closet that doesn't hang off her like a potato sack, yet covers enough that no one will know. She always wears this dress on Wednesdays now, and hopes father won't notice. She glances quickly at the grimy reflection in the looking glass hanging on the back of her door. She looks exactly how the daughter of the sorceress's grounds keeper should: poised, clean, miserable. Father will be satisfied. It's important to keep father happy, especially on Wednesdays.

Even before Anastasia discovered Will Scarlet and took to sneaking around the grounds all afternoon to watch him check his trap line, Wednesdays had been dangerous days in the grounds keeper's household. Father hates visiting the village, though she can't really understand why since he always returns smelling of rum and sweat and with a pocket full of gold, and any little thing has the potential to set off his legendary bad temper. Once, Anastasia had been startled by a mouse darting across the floor of their cabin and she had dropped her bowl of soup. The bowl shattered on impact with the floor and soup splattered everywhere, including all over her father's freshly polished boots. It had been weeks before she could sit without wincing. Ever since that day, she takes extra care to keep father happy, especially on Wednesdays.

There's something different, however, about this Wednesday. She notices it the minute she steps out into the great room that takes up most of their cabin. Father isn't dressed for town, he's dressed for the woods, in old breeches and a thick woolen sweater, and he's whistling to himself as he cracks three eggs into a pan over the fire. It unsettles her, but she can't think why. She sits at the worn wooden table, spreading cranberry sauce onto a biscuit and suddenly she remembers.

The last time father whistled was well over three years ago. She remembers that morning so vividly it's as if that morning and this are playing out on top of each other in her mind. Father turns and smiles at her, but he hasn't turned at all, he's still crouched in front of the fire, stirring his eggs so they'll be light and fluffy. She shakes her head, trying to banish the ghosts of mornings past, but they will not be banished. There's something niggling at the back of her mind, something about that morning that she needs to know, something important. She closes her eyes and focuses on the memory playing out over the canvas of her mind.

"_Good morning father." Anastasia said, setting a tea pot on the table beside the box of sugar crystals. "Are you eating in the village today, or shall I pack you a lunch?"_

_Her father looked up and smiled. "I'm going into the woods today, but I will be home for the noon meal. I thought you might cook up some of that venison I brought last night. Cook extra, we may have a guest."_

"_A guest, father?" Anastasia usually tried to keep her questions to herself, father didn't have much patience for 'nonsense,' but he was in such a jovial mood this morning that she thought she might get away with the impertinence. _

"_Yes, a very important guest. I expect you to take extra care in your chores today, understood?" _

"_Of course father." Though she was only eleven years old, Anastasia completed most of the house work and nearly all of the cooking. Only washing laundry and chopping wood were beyond her physical capabilities and therefore fell under her father's list of duties. Though he had already told her that as soon as she was strong enough to stir the great cauldron they used to boil their clothes clean, that he would be handing this duty to her. _

_Anastasia didn't really mind the work. But sometimes, when she was especially lonely or tired and there was still a mountain of dishes to wash or an entire dinner to prepare, she imagined what life might be like if her dear mother hadn't died giving birth to her. Would she have been able to go to the village school instead of learning her lessons by candle light in the evenings when her chores were done? Would father look at her with love instead of avoiding the sight of her most days?_

_She knew, in that way that children know without ever being told, that her father blamed her for killing her mother. He tried, she thought, with a daughter's fierce loyalty, but he didn't know what to do with her. It couldn't be easy when the love of your life died and left you to care for an infant, she thought, but she wished most days that he was better at dealing with that particular difficulty. Life in the grounds keeper's cabin would be much more fun if only father loved her with the unconditional sort of love that fathers in storybooks had for their children. _

"_You will go into the woods today to pick berries," Father said as he poured each of them a cup of strong mint tea. "Make those tarts you made for your birthday. Maleficent has something of a sweet tooth, and this is a celebratory meal." _

_**Maleficent!**__ Anastasia had heard much of her father's employer, most of it terrifying, but she had never met the sorceress. She knew her eyes were as round and saucers, but she did her best to hide her surprise by ducking her head even as she replied "Whatever you wish, father." _

"Anastasia!" Father's voice, cross enough that she fears this isn't the first time he has called for her, breaks through the memory.

"I'm sorry father." She puts down the biscuit she has been holding in one hand, though she has yet to take a bite, and gives her father her full attention before he can decide to use a more drastic method to make her listen.

"This daydreaming needs to stop." He says, his narrow, dark eyes seeming to look through her for a moment. "How are you ever going to get your work done and your lessons learned if you spend half an hour spreading sauce on your biscuit?"

"I'm sorry, father." She repeats. The real reasons she has so much difficulty getting her lessons completed on top of all of her chores flies to the tip of her tongue, but she bites it back. Talking back to father is both pointless and painful. The work around the cabin needs to get done, and Maleficent keeps him very busy, so she knows that work must naturally fall to her. She'd once had the audacity to ask why they didn't hire a servant girl to help, a mistake she would never make again.

"Hmph," her father grunts, unconvinced. "I have important business with Maleficent at her palace. I'll not be home until very late, perhaps even tomorrow morning."

Anastasia nods as if she understands, although her mind is bursting with questions. What sort of business? And if it's business up the Forbidden Mountain, why is he dressed like he does when he trolls through the woods looking for poachers?

"Get your own dinner and do your school work. Do not stray far from the cabin. The woods are not safe, and I would hate for any harm to come to you."

Anastasia believes the last bit because she wants to, not because of any genuine concern on his face or in his voice. He could very well have been telling her to make sure his prized goat was milked on time for all the fatherly love in his voice or face. "I'll be careful, father." She says meekly, picking up her biscuit again and raising it to her lips.

Father nods and they eat the rest of the meal in silence.

Anastasia is tense. Now that she's remembered the last time her father was this happy, she also remembers what else happened that day, or rather that night.

She was supposed to have been sleeping when Maleficent and her father brought a badly beaten and semi-conscious John Scarlet into the cabin, but it had been a strange day, and she hadn't been able to nod off no matter how many imaginary sheep she'd conjured to count.

_She heard her father's voice before he even entered the cabin, and like a shot she was out of bed, tiptoeing across the floor boards and pressing her eye to the crack between the door and the frame. She had to clamp one hand over her mouth to keep from crying out when they entered. Father came in first, setting his lantern on the table and then hurriedly lighting candles throughout the cabin. Immediately after him came three men. Two, dressed all in black, with their faces obscured by deep hoods, were Maleficent's guards, the third, dressed in a night shirt and breeches, his boots hastily tied, dangled between them. _

_At first glance, Alice thought the dangling man who had obviously dressed in a rush was dead. His legs dragged against the floor, not resisting in the slightest, and his head lolled from side to side like a puppet's with each move of the men holding him under the armpits. She bit down on her palm to stop a cry of horror. Why would father bring a dead man into their cabin? Had father killed him?_

_But then the guards set the man on a chair and she could see that his eyes, half swollen shut with bruises, were very much alive, and filled with a seething rage that made her take a step back. When she returned to peering through the crack, the men in black uniforms had gone and someone else had entered the cabin: Maleficent. _

_She looked somehow different than she did earlier that same day when she shared a meal with father and Anastasia. Nothing about her was actually different, she was wearing the same deep purple gown and the same strange, pointy hat that made it look like horns were jutting out of her blonde curls, but there was an air of darkness around her that made Anastasia's skin crawl. The candle light set off the planes of her face, making every crease and curve look sharp and sinister. _

"_John Scarlet," Maleficent's voice was like molasses, dark and sweet, "did you think we didn't know?" _

_The man's entire being sagged under her gaze. When he spoke it came out weak, as if he already knew it wouldn't matter what he said at this point, as if he knew his fate was already sealed and this dance was for Maleficent's amusement and nothing more. "My family—"_

"_Are your concern, not mine." Maleficent cut him off. She leaned in close to him, so their noses were practically touching. "And you might have thought about your precious family before you set traps on _my_ land." _

_Her final words seemed to galvanize the man. John's spine straightened and he lifted his chin. "All the land around here is _your_ land." He snarled. "If you didn't want us to gather sustenance from it, perhaps you should have thought about that before you and your thugs took over the village and drove up prices so high that anyone who doesn't poach or know someone who does will starve." _

"_Brave words from a dead man." Maleficent said in a conversational tone, turning to Anastasia's father. "What say you, grounds keeper? Did my _thugs_," she cast her eyes at John Scarlet at the word, one eyebrow twitching upwards, "steal the people's ability to make a living or are the people just lazy, leeches who should be exterminated?"_

"_No!" John cried, though no one but Anastasia seemed to hear. _

"_I think your prices are more than fair, your excellency." Her father's tone was one Anastasia had never heard him use before, and secretly hoped to never hear again, it dripped with honey and subservience. It turned her stomach turn, like the time she'd seen a man lick another man's boot to show his obedience. That tone was her father licking the spikey black heels of Maleficent. _

"_And what of this man's claims?"_

"_The weak always blame the strong when they fail to thrive." The grounds keeper took Scarlet's chin in one hand, forcing the man's face upwards. He appraised it for several seconds before letting go and stepping back. "I've known this one's kind before. Thinks because he's handsome enough, life should be easy. Never worked a proper day in his life, I'd wager. At least not an _honest _day's work." _

_Anastasia watched with eyes wide with horror. She knew John Scarlet, though she hadn't known the name to go with his face until tonight. He was the man who had once given her a bushel of apples free when she lost the silver her father had given her to go buy them. When she'd promised to repay him for his kindness, he'd told her to pass it on to someone else. She'd seen him do similarly nice things for others too. She knew that when the blacksmith's workshop burned down, killing Fredrick Smith, the kindly old blacksmith whose widow still lived in the town with her youngest son, it had been this man who had taken up a collection to help pay for a cottage for the Widow Smith and her two sons. He was a good man. _

"_What do we do with dishonest men?" Maleficent smiled as she asked the question, delight lighting up her features. _

_Anastasia wanted to cry out, or run out, beg her father to 'leave this man alone!' but she couldn't. Instead she stayed where she was, eye pressed to the crack between the door and the frame, listening and watching as her father sentenced a good man to death for no worse crime than trying to feed his family. _

Father has risen to his feet and is reaching for his warmest jacket when Anastasia realizes he is finished his breakfast. She jumps to her feet with a muttered apology and immediately begins to clear the dishes from the table.

"You will do your chores and your lessons before I return." Father says, fixing her with a hard look before turning and disappearing out the door.

Her "Yes, father" echoes back off the closed door and Anastasia sighs. No matter what she does, it never seems to be enough. Yet, on mornings like this, when her own thoughts consume her and make it difficult for her to pay attention to the world around her in all its boring details, she feels guilty for not being the perfect daughter her father wants her to be and she thinks that if she could just get her act together maybe he would love her.

She washes the dishes quickly and then heads into the forest. It's Wednesday and Will should be checking his trap line. She tells herself that today she will invite him back to the cabin for lunch, but she knows it's a lie. She's not ready to come out of hiding quite yet.

She catches a glimpse of someone through the bushes not far ahead of her and ducks closer to the tree line. Anastasia knows how to run softly, so no one will hear her feet fall on the forest floor, and she uses that knowledge now to close the distance. By the time she gets close enough to realize it isn't Will, it's too late for her to do anything about it.

Her father isn't up the Forbidden Mountain visiting Maleficent, he's striding purposefully through the woods, heading directly for where Anastasia knows from 50 weeks of tracking his movements unseen from the shadows that Will will be. She doesn't know what to do, and though her mind is racing faster than her feet, she can't seem to come up with anything that won't get her or Will killed.

There's one thing she knows for certain. If she can't find a way to convince father that Will isn't a poacher, she will probably never see Will again. She also knows that if her father suspects that she is protecting a poacher, the punishment will be severe. What she doesn't know and can't seem to figure out, is how she can stop her father from catching Will without alerting him to Will's trap lines, or worse, to Will himself.

And then it's too late to find a brilliant plan, because Father just down the path, rounding the trunk of a large cedar, is Will. Father's eyes look murderous. Will comes to a halt, looking every bit like a frightened rabbit.

Without a clue what she is going to actually say, or do to avert disaster but knowing she has to do _something_, Anastasia leaps from the bushes, practically flinging her body between Will and her father. "Jack!" She cries, flashing Will her biggest smile. "You're early. I was just coming to meet you."

Will's brow furrows in confusion, but he's too stunned to speak and blow the hastily constructed cover.

Anastasia peeks up at her father through her lashes. He does not look happy. In fact, the red radiating from his collar is something she has only ever seen immediately before he punched something. She swallows, and then blunders on. "I'm sorry father, I should have told you. I met Jack," she gestures towards Will and prays that she isn't giving him too much credit in the brains department, "at the carnival last month. He's quite good with Maths, and since you have been working so hard lately, I asked him to assist me with my lessons."

Father looks like he is trying to find the fatal flaw in her story, but after a moment of perplexed silence he gives up.

She can tell he's given up because when his eyes turn to Will they're curious instead of murderous and she breathes a sigh of relief. "I meant to tell you this morning, but I forgot. I'm sorry, father."

"Go on then." He growled, stepping aside so they could pass him. "Mind he doesn't stay past dinner hour."

"Of course, father." She dips a curtsey and then grabs Will by the hand and half drags him into the trees and doesn't let go until they are safely shut into the cabin.

"What the bloody hell was that?!" Will exclaims, ripping his hand away from hers as if the contact burns.

"You could say thank you." She snaps. Doesn't he realize the risk she took lying to her father about his identity? If father had realized… she shakes her head. Father is a busy man and has little time to keep up with town gossip that isn't relevant to his role. Or so she hopes. Her only comfort is that if he'd known that Widow Smith's son Jack had run away to join the ogre wars in the next kingdom, he would never have let her get away with the lie.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Will retorts.

She recognizes the words as her first to him and wonders if that was on purpose. "I saved your life, Will Scarlet."

"Oh, so you do remember my name."

She rolls her eyes. "Of _course_ I remember your name. I also remember your father, and so does mine."

Will's body tenses.

"Relax. Father doesn't think almost-fifteen-year-olds are good for anything but getting into trouble, he won't give you a second thought. At least, now he thinks you're the widow Smith's useless son." She points to one of the chairs around their dining table. "Sit."

Not taking his suspicious eyes off her, Will sits.

"You aren't by chance actually good at Maths, are you?" she asks hopefully.

"Probably better at it than you." Will says with a cocky little smirk she would dearly love to wipe off his face, if only she weren't so desperately hopeless at maths. "Let me see." He holds his hand out for her workbook and, grudgingly, she hands it over.


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N:** _Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! It's lovely to know you're enjoying reading this as much as I am writing it. Please keep them coming :)_

_For those worrying I won't finish, I have the entire story plotted out and I've written the ending (which is usually the hardest part for me) so barring anything tragic, this story will be completed. This is my Nanowrimo fic this year which means I'm churning out chapters quickly(for me anyway), but not getting much time to edit them. Please forgive any errors I haven't caught (I'm still kicking myself for choosing to work with a tense I usually avoid like the plague)._

**Chapter 3**

Will is actually brilliant at Maths. The puzzles that tie Anastasia's brain in knots seem as easy as breathing to him. Even father is impressed at how well Anastasia is able to do basic algebraic sums after only one day of 'Jack' helping her and when she asks if she can hire 'Jack' for a small salary to continue helping her one or two days a week, father agrees to let her have a modest sum. Unbeknownst to Anastasia, this amount is a fifth of what he had arranged to pay a professional tutor to help his mathematically stupid daughter get through her work.

Anastasia can't wait to tell Will. She half runs, half skips through the forest to the small cottage at the edge of the village that is the Scarlet home. Will is in the yard, chopping firewood when she gambols, breathless, into sight. He almost misses the log he's splitting entirely when he sees her. He sets down his axe, balancing it against the wood and steps towards her. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?" It's not that he's not pleased to see her, nor is he exactly pleased, when it comes to Anastasia, Will's feelings are a bit of a jumble. The day before had been fun, but she almost never comes to the village, and it definitely wasn't like her to show up for a visit in the middle of a Thursday afternoon.

"Nice to see you too." She rolls her eyes, something Will notices she does a lot around him.

Will crosses his arms across his chest. He has no intention of making this easy on her. Whatever she's here to do or say, it's bound to be unpleasant. The fun they had had the day before aside, he hasn't forgotten who her father is and what he's capable of, at least not completely. "What do you want?"

"Fine!" Anastasia's sunny mood disappears and she glares at him for a few seconds before continuing. "I want you to tutor me in Maths."

Will laughs. "No." He says, bending down he picks up his axe and resumes splitting wood.

"Why not?"

His axe connects with the wood and there's a satisfying cracking noise as the wood pulls apart, falling into two even sized chunks. "Why would I?"

"I'd pay you."

Will picks up one of the two chunks of wood and balances it on the tree trunk before him so he can split it again into a better size for their cooking fire. "So, I'm your charity, is that it?" He swings the axe with unnecessary force and misses entirely, embedding the head of the axe deep into the stump. "Bloody hell!" he curses, glaring at Anastasia as if it's her fault, which he thinks it just might be. Who does she think she is, coming to his home and asking him to be her hired help as if she's doing him a favour?

"No."

Will recognizes the small, sad tone in her voice from their very first meeting. Just like it did then, it makes him feel like he's done something wrong. Today, however, this doesn't make him want to reconsider, it makes him want to hurt her more. Maybe if he's difficult enough she'll leave and never come back and he won't have to sort out whether he's happy or annoyed to see her every time her pretty face crosses his field of vision. Only the fact that she probably saved his life the day before keeps Will's mouth shut. He tugs savagely at the axe and it jerks free.

"I don't think you're a charity at all, Will." Anastasia continues, still in that tiny, sad voice that sounds nothing like how the daughter of Maleficent's grounds keeper should. "I was hoping…" she trails off, scuffs her toe in the dirt and then continued in a rush. "I was hoping we could be friends."

"You always pay for your friends?" Will knows he is being cruel, but he can't help it. She throws him off balance and that makes him want to push back.

Instead of matching his belligerent tone, she tilts her head to one side and studies him with slightly pursed lips and asks without ire, "Have you always been such an arrogant ass?"

"Have you always been such a spoiled brat?"

Anastasia opens her mouth to deny the claim and then clamps it shut again. She supposes she is something of a brat, even if she wouldn't call herself spoiled in the least. "Yes," she admits grudgingly.

Will looks at her and winks. "Me too."

"Well?"

"Well what?" Will can't help playing dumb just to see the way her eyes narrow and her jaw clenches in frustration. She is absurdly easy to wind up and he thinks he might just say yes for the opportunity to have continual fun at her expense. _Only…_ he lines up another piece of wood and lets the axe fly, _her father is the reason I don't have one anymore_. It's not her fault and he _knows_ that, but he isn't sure he can stomach the thought of doing any favours to the grounds keeper, or his family. Even if Anastasia is completely adorable when he can tell she's trying her hardest not to slap him.

Huffing a dramatic sigh to tell him she is seriously displeased, Anastasia repeats her offer. "Would you like to work as my Maths tutor? Every Wednesday you can come to the sorceress's woods, have lunch at the cabin, and check your traps without father ever being the wiser."

Will's axe completely misses the wood he's swinging for, and the stump it's resting on, slicing instead at the grass as Will's head whips to look at Anastasia. He's impressed despite himself. The refusal that was forming on his tongue dies in the face of her reframed offer. This isn't a favour to the grounds keeper, this is a way for Will to keep his mother and himself fed and clothed without worrying that the moment the grounds keeper sees him in the woods he's a dead man. If he's tutoring Anastasia, he has to walk through the woods, doesn't he? And he'd need a book bag, obviously. "And what about your Maths?" He asks, addressing the one part of this deal she hasn't. "If I'm hunting, who's going to help you with that?"

"You are, of course." She says with a little laugh, as if that should be perfectly obvious.

Will raises an eyebrow. "And how is that supposed to work exactly? I'm no teacher, and checking the lines takes most of the day."

"Only because you're working alone."

Will blinks several times before his brain can form his shock into a question. "I'm sorry?"

Once again those blue eyes roll. "Don't be thick, Will. You teach me how to clear and rearm your traps and we can get it done in half the time." She bounces a little on the balls of her feet, as if she can't quite contain her excitement. "It'll be fun."

"Fun?" He can't believe he's considering this. It's madness, isn't it? The grounds keeper's daughter covering for a poacher is one thing, her engaging in poaching herself is quite another. He's not sure he can, in good conscience, allow it. Although why he thinks he has any say in the matter is beyond him. He's already learning quickly that once Anastasia takes an idea into her head, she's going to carry it through, whether the other people involved in that idea like it or not.

"Well, maybe not fun." She admits with an impish grin, "but it will work."

"I suppose." The grudging admission costs Will some of his pride.

"So you're in?"

Will sighs and rubs the back of his neck with one hand, buying time for his racing brain to compile a quick pro-con list. "Yes, I'm in." He says at last, not sure if he's happy or annoyed that the only con he could come up with was the identity of her father.

An excited noise somewhere between a laugh and a scream erupts from her mouth and when Will gives her a strange look she merely grins. "You're not going to regret this, Will Scarlet. I promise."

Will isn't so sure about that. There's something about the way his stomach clenches when she smiles, all slightly crooked white teeth, dimples, and joy, that makes him think he might be in serious trouble already.


	5. Chapter 4

_A/N: Huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far. It means a lot to know that you are enjoying this fic. In fact I love you and your kind words so much I couldn't make you wait until Sunday (but don't fear, there will be another posted on Sunday - or late Saturday night when I recover from the Doctor Who 50th and can't sleep from fangirling too hard)_

_The site is not allowing superscript. Numbers in brackets should be read as superscript. _

**Chapter 4**

"You want me to do _what_?" Anastasia looks at him with such horror that Will bursts out laughing.

"Small animals like the muskrat depend on their sense of smell more than anything. You need to mask your scent."

"And that means smearing myself with," she eyes the flask he's offering her with horror, "pee?"

Will smirks. There are other, slightly less disgusting ways to mask human scent, but he isn't about to tell her that, at least not her first time. She's been following him on his route for three months now, doing nothing much more than asking a million questions about everything from his background to what exactly one uses to turn a tiny little muskrat carcass into one of those beautiful fur stoles the clothier is always showing off at market even though only Maleficent and the occasional out of town visitor can afford to buy. Today he's told her it's her turn. If she's going to actually be helpful, she needs to touch the traps. "Yes, you do."

She takes the flask from him and pours a small amount of the foul smelling yellowish liquid that is actually a combination of bile and urine from several of Will's recent catches into one hand. "Ugh." She shudders and hands the flask back to him before rubbing her hands together to spread the liquid. "Now what?"

"Now you set the trap," Will gestures with a nod of his head to the trap lying a few feet away, partially obscured by fallen leaves.

"Like this?" Anastasia asks, gingerly pulling the jaws of the trap open.

Will can't help but be amused by the worried look on her face. "Yes. Pull it open, and then line up those pieces there." He leans over her shoulder, so close her hair tickles his nose and points to the piece he means. Her hair smells like rosemary and for a moment his senses are overwhelmed with that smell, so much more pleasant than muskrat urine.

Anastasia's nimble fingers arm the trap and pull away. "There."

She says it with such a tone of satisfaction that Will briefly wishes it would snap back shut on her like many of his first traps did. But it doesn't, she's armed it correctly. It appears that, apart from maths which she is truly terrible at, there is not much Anastasia can't do. There's something kind of frustrating about that for Will, who really has only ever been good at a couple things, maths and picking pockets. "Good, now we bait it." He says stepping back and handing her a bag of salt crystals.

"Salt?" She asks, brow furrowing.

"Animals love salt, and humans can acquire it easily." He says, gesturing for her to scatter it around the trap. "They get a little taste and they get greedy."

"Sounds like humans," she mutters, following his directions and scattering a little salt around the trap.

Her mutter is so quiet that Will almost misses it. He is pretty sure she didn't mean for him to hear it, so he doesn't say anything, but it sticks in his mind. There is a lot about Anastasia he hasn't quite figured out yet, but little moments like this, when an unguarded word slips through her lips, he thinks he's starting to piece it together.

"Anything else?" She asked, handing the salt bag back to him.

"Just another fifteen traps to set." He replies, tucking the salt into his bag. Impulsively he holds out his arm for her to take. He isn't sure if he's more surprised at himself for offering or her for taking it. But she does and they fall into step with one another easily, as if they've been doing this for ages. It's comforting and disconcerting all at once and Will is forced to admit something he has been fighting for weeks: he likes this, the time spent with Anastasia, teaching her the things his father taught him almost four years ago, her hand tucked in the crook of his elbow, her long blonde hair blowing into his face in the afternoon wind. He likes it a lot.

.

.

_Two Months Later_

"You're an arrogant ass, Will Scarlet!"

"And you're an insufferable brat." Will counters. "But that doesn't change the fact that the square root of nine is three, not four."

Anastasia isn't sure whether she should cry or slap him, and settles on neither. "Who cares about the square root of nine anyway?" She knows she sounds like a petulant four year old, but it's been three hours and she isn't any closer to understanding the problem than she was when they started. Moments like this she thinks her father might have a point when he speaks to her like she's deeply stupid, when it comes to Maths she is.

Will seems to sense that she's reaching a breaking point. When he responds his voice is much gentler than she has ever heard it before. "You do, if you want to solve for x." He gently takes the pencil from her hand and draws another triangle on the page, scribbling in numbers in his spikey writing. "Try this one."

She looks at the shape on the paper and without warning she can feel tears welling up behind her eyes. The marks on the page are gibberish. She can no more remember how to solve for x than she can fly out the window and escape all of this. She sucks in a deep gulp of air, trying to calm the frustration rising within her. "Can we just… try again next week?" She asks, keeping her eyes fixed on the paper and willing the tears to stay back. She can't stand the idea of Will seeing her cry.

"Just do this one problem."

Will is still using that gentle voice, it's not helping the tears hovering at the edge of her eyelids. Anastasia blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the moisture. A single tear trickles down her cheek and she swipes it away violently.

"Just this one and then we'll call it a day, okay?" Will says, placing his hand over hers for a moment. It's just a moment, but even after he pulls away, Anastasia can feel the point where his skin touched hers.

"Okay," she replies softly. She turns her eyes back to the triangle on the page and even though she still isn't really sure what the point of all of this is, she resolutely begins plugging the provided numbers into the formula. _A(__2)__+B__(__2)__=C__(__2)_She sucks her lower lip into her mouth as she focuses on each step one at a time. _3__(__2)__ +4__(__2)__= x__(__2)__, 3x3 is 9, and 4x4 is 16, so 9+16=x__(__2)__, which means… x__(__2)__= 25… _Her brow furrows. She should know this! She's so close, but somehow her brain stutters at the idea of a square root and she can't seem to finish that final step.

"You've got this." Will's voice comes from so close beside her she can feel his breath puffing at her hair. He's braced himself with one hand on the edge of the table and the other on the back of her chair so he can watch her work. It's distracting, but also kind of nice, to have him that close.

She shakes her head. "I don't know the…" she trails off. "Wait… A number squared is just a number times itself," she whispers her thoughts aloud.

Will's face breaks into a smile, but he doesn't say a word. He knows she's right on the edge of getting it, and he doesn't want to ruin her moment of triumph.

"Four fours are sixteen, so five fives are twenty five," her voice grows gradually louder as excitement washes over her. "So, x is five!" She writes the answer with a flourish and then looks up at Will, holding her breath until she sees his ear to ear grin.

"See? I told you you could do it." He says straightening up.

"No you didn't," she points out pedantically, "you called me an insufferable brat. You never told me you knew I could do this."

Will shakes his head at her, his smile unwavering. "Well, I knew you could do it."

Anastasia gives in to the urge she's been fighting since lunch and throws her pencil at his head.

Will dodges the wooden projectile easily, scooping it up when it hits the floor and lobs it back at her. His throw is too hard and it flies across the cabin, bouncing off the tooth of a stuffed and mounted buck's head before falling to the floor.

For a fraction of a second neither Will nor Anastasia moves, and then it's like they're galvanized by the same force. As one they bound across the room, racing for the pencil. Anastasia has a head start and she gets there seconds before Will, but instead of giving up or grasping for the pencil, he scoops her up and flings her over his shoulder.

She shrieks and kicks at him with her boots. "Put me down!"

"Give me the pencil." He counters.

"This pencil?" She asks, poking him just below his ribs with the pointed end.

She can't tell if the jab hurt or tickled, but it works, sort of. Will lets go of her and bends his knees so she can slide to the ground, but before she can get away, he grabs her. His strong, calloused fingers circle her slender wrists, holding her arms down at her sides.

She looks up at him and the sassy comment she'd meant to say disappears from her mind. Will's eyes are dark, and the playful smirk is gone from his lips. She can feel heat rolling off his body in waves. Anastasia swallows.

And then, without warning or explanation, Will drops her wrists, turns, and without a word strides out of the cabin as if the hounds of hell are snapping at his heels.

.

.

"Where were you? I was worried."

Will hasn't even had time to shut the door before Mother's question hits his ears. He hangs up his bag and jacket and kicks off his boots without replying. She is sitting in front of the fire, rocking to and fro on the rocking chair father made her six years ago for her birthday. Will kisses her lightly on the forehead before settling down on the floor by her feet. The warmth of the fire feels wonderful after an afternoon spent teaching Anastasia how to set traps in the damp cold of the forest.

"Will?" Mother's voice is gentle, but there is steel under the velvety tone and he knows he will have to come up with something and 'at school' won't cut it since it's well past sun down and all of the children who _had_ been at school would have been home hours ago.

Fixing his gaze on the red hot embers at the heart of the fire, Will does something he hasn't done for years, he tells his mother the truth. "I was in the forest, with Anastasia."

The rocking chair comes to an abrupt stop in its rocking. "You were _where_?" Mother's voice is half whisper and all ill-concealed terror.

Will sighs. This is why he doesn't tell mother the truth. There was a time, four years ago, when her eyes would have lit up with curiosity and she would have spent five minutes grilling him about what the grounds keeper's cabin was like, and then another half hour asking dozens of not at all subtle questions about Anastasia. He misses that version of his mother. The woman sitting just behind him now, radiating tension, is almost a stranger.

He turns so his back is to the fire and he's facing his mother head on and takes one of her hands in his. "It's okay." He says, trying to transmit through touch and the calmness of his voice that he really is okay and she has nothing to worry about. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work.

Mother's body stays tense and the hand Will isn't holding drums a nervous beat against the arm of her chair. "What were you thinking, Will? You know what that man is like!"

Tears gather at her lashes and Will's heart sinks. He hates that this is hurting her, but at the same time, he feels a traitorous pulse of relief course through his veins. She knows. He doesn't have to lie to her anymore. He tells himself she'll get over worrying about him in time, even if he doesn't quite believe it.

"I'm helping Anastasia with her maths," he explains, keeping his tone gentle. "I don't even see the grounds keeper, he's always away on Wednesdays."

What he thought would calm his mother's fear instead seemed to exacerbate it. "You're sneaking around with his daughter behind his back?" She raises a trembling hand to her face. "Oh Will…"

"It's not like that." Will has to fight to keep the frustration out of his voice.

"Will, please promise me you won't go back there! I can't lose you too!"

Until his mother asked him not to go back, Will would have said he tolerated his Wednesdays with Anastasia for the money, even if recently he'd begun to look forward to them and he had trouble denying that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and not half bad to spend time with either. But when mother asked him not to go back he suddenly realized just how much those afternoons split between setting and clearing traps and fighting with Ana over maths problems neither of them would ever use again after she passes her examinations that spring mean to him.

The thought of stopping, of cutting Anastasia off without a word of explanation, sends a physical wave of pain through his chest. It catches him off guard, stealing his breath for a moment. "I can't." He half chokes as he says the words, but he knows, even as he cringes at the way mother recoils as if his words were a physical assault, it's the truth. He can't stop seeing Anastasia, not now, maybe not ever. Somehow she's wormed her way into his heart, and he isn't ready to cut her out, no matter who asks him to.

_A/N: A little note about time. While I am specifying time jumps in some places where I want to emphasize the shift or I think the text isn't clear, most of the jumps of days or weeks are going to be implied rather than explicitly laid out. Basically the first 12 chapters span almost three years. The reason for the vagueness should become apparent by the end of part 1, but I just wanted to let you know it's deliberate. If you want to keep track of time moving along, just pay attention to those points where age is mentioned. _

_Thanks for reading. Please review :) _


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Will isn't himself. Anastasia can't say exactly what it is, but he's _off_ somehow. The spark in his dark eyes that's quintessentially _Will_ isn't there. He's quiet, and kind of distant. Not that he's ever been extremely chatty or effusive, but there's a new formality in the way he speaks with her, and he hasn't touched her, hasn't even been close enough to accidentally brush against her, in weeks – not since the afternoon she solved her first Pythagorean theorem problem.

By mid-day she's starting to worry that he's tired of her and the thought hurts because, even though she knows she drives him crazy with her questions and her inability to grasp the basic principles of trigonometry, she really thought he had begun to see past her parentage and maybe even begun to like her. Like her as a friend, anyway. She knows it is probably too much to hope that he might like her the way she likes him. But she hopes anyway.

She gets almost every problem wrong that afternoon, not because she's suddenly forgotten how to do trigonometry (she's actually getting fairly good under Will's often sarcastic but always patient guidance), she just can't get her mind to focus on the problems long enough to come to the correct solution. Who cares what x is when Will is sitting on the far side of the cabin barely even looking at her unless she asks him a direct question. She closes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath through her nose. _Focus!_ she commands her unruly mind. Examinations are three weeks away, and she _has_ to pass. For her own sake, but also for Will's. If father suspects that well over half of the time she and 'Jack' are together they aren't doing Maths at all, but traipsing about the woods trapping animals, or sitting on overturned apple crates in Will's little workshop where he taught her how to skin a muskrat, or picking berries on the foothills of the Forbidden Mountain he will be furious. And a furious father is something Anastasia does her best to avoid.

Opening her eyes, Anastasia tries once again to focus on the problem in front of her, but the numbers swim across the page and when her pencil breaks midway through writing the number 27, she throws it down in frustration. "I give up!"

Will doesn't even look at her. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling, but Anastasia realizes he's not really looking at the ceiling. His brow is furrowed and she wonders if he even heard her. He seems lost in his own thoughts. She's about to repeat herself, and maybe fling her broken pencil at his head for good measure, when he speaks.

"Your exams are in three weeks." His eyes meet hers and she feels them like a shock of static through her entire body.

"I know." She replies, straightening her shoulders and preparing for a fight. _It doesn't matter what he says_, she thinks defiantly, _I'm not doing another second of Maths! I'm done. _

"And then what?"

The question catches her completely off guard. Anastasia knows she's gaping at him like a landed trout, but she can't seem to gather her wits enough even to close her mouth. It's not just the question that has her flummoxed; it's the look in his eyes. _He's…_ she doesn't really believe what her eyes are telling her .._afraid._

Will doesn't say anything else. He just waits, the cold feeling in the pit of his stomach that's been there for weeks, though until today he's tried to deny its existence, spreading outwards as if it's turning his entire body to ice.

"We'll see each other." She says, although her voice isn't as confident as she'd like it to be.

His gaze is so intense that his eyes seem to stab into her. "How?" He wants to believe her, she can tell by his voice and the way he's leaning ever so slightly towards her in his chair.

She want to believe it too. "I am allowed to have friends, you know."

"Are you?" His eyebrows raise almost to his hairline. "Really?"

"I…" She wants to stamp her foot in anger, but restrains herself. "Yes, really." She snaps, though she isn't actually sure in that moment. Father has never forbidden friends, but he's done an excellent job keeping her contact with the villagers to a minimum for the last fifteen and a half years.

"So if you tell your father you're friends with the son of a poacher, he'd be alright with that?"

"Don't call yourself that."

"Why not? It's true. And I don't think your father will forget that as easily as you seem to."

"I don't forge—"

"Yeah, you do." Will's voice is filled with resignation rather than recrimination, but Anastasia still feels attacked. "It's okay," he continues before she can form her defensiveness into words, "I forget sometimes too."

He can tell she doesn't understand what he means, but he isn't sure how to put it into words. He knows she doesn't judge him for who his father was, though he thinks that's what she's interpreted his words as. But she forgets that they can never be more than this. He can never be anything other than 'Jack, the Widow Smith's son who's surprisingly good at Maths for an idiot,' her tutor, a fraud. She can never introduce him to her father by his true name. And having lost his own father, Will isn't about to come between Anastasia and hers. No matter how much Will hates the grounds keeper, he can tell Anastasia loves him. She should. A girl should always love her father.

"I don't care who your family is, Will." Anastasia rises and circles the table.

Will watches her, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. Part of him wants to back away, to keep the distance he's forced between them since that afternoon when he'd almost kissed her right here in the grounds keeper's cottage. But he can't move.

She stops right in front of him, so close her skirts brush against his legs. "I don't care about any of that."

Will tilts his head back so he can look up at her face. "You should."

"Why?"

"Because it _matters_ Anastasia!" He rises to his feet so swiftly the chair topples backwards with a crash. They're almost exactly the same height and standing this close their noses almost touch. "Because we don't live in some fairy land where everybody gets a happy ending. People talk, and judge and come to conclusions about who you are without giving you even a chance to prove them right or wrong. Don't you get that? Us being friends can only end badly for you. Why don't you see that?"

"You're just saying that because you're scared." Anastasia snaps. She recoils from the truth in his words, as if she can make his words a lie is she dismisses them hard enough.

"Of course I'm scared. I'm bloody terrified!"

That is not what Anastasia was expecting. "Y-you are?"

He grabs her face with both hands. His grip is firm, but not harsh as his eyes rake over her face, there's anguish in them and she wants to close her eyes so she doesn't have to see it, but she can't bring herself to look away. His hands drop from her face, skimming over her shoulders and tangling his fingers with hers before severing contact. He takes a step back. "Yeah, I am." His head drops. "Aren't you?" he asks without breaking eye contact with the floor.

Anastasia almost laughs as she answers,

"No." She hopes he'll look up, so she knows what he's thinking, but he doesn't so she continues. "I'm never scared of anything when I'm with you." And as she says it, she knows it's kind of a lie, because right now, in this moment, she is more afraid of what Will is going to say than she has ever been about anything in the rest of her life. But it's also the truth. Will makes her feel _safe_, like nothing can touch her with him at her side.

He looks up at her then, and the anguish in his eyes has been replaced by something she can only describe as wonder. In three strides he is right in front of her, and she thinks he's going to kiss her, but he doesn't. He just takes her in his arms and holds her in the tightest hug she has ever felt. "I'll never let anything hurt you." He says softly into her hair.

And he believes it.

.

.

_Three Weeks Later_

Helping mother in the garden is far from Will's favourite way to spend time, but ever since she learned of the hours he spends each week with Anastasia, mother has been growing increasingly worried about him and he can't stand to see her worry, so here he is. At least when she can see him kneeling in the dirt, pulling up weeds, and hear him cursing half under his breath about the mud and the bugs and the smell of manure she isn't worrying he's going to come home in a pine box with a bill from Maleficent for the hanging.

Still, there are a dozen places he would rather be. One place in particular is pulling at him even though he knows there is no point in going to the grounds keeper's cabin today. It's Wednesday, but it's also Exam Day. Ana, as he's started to call her in his thoughts even if he's yet to risk shortening her name aloud, will be in town sitting the Maths exam with other students from the village aiming to complete their education this spring so they can go on to be trained in the trades or the healing arts.

Will is not taking the examinations, even if he hadn't stopped attending school almost two years ago he probably wouldn't have registered. There is an element of pointlessness to sitting exams designed to test whether the pupil is capable of completing advanced education in his or her chosen vocation when most of the children in the village will end up taking over for one of their parents in the family trade. Will, having no father and with a mother whose main source of income comes from helping women in the village through their pregnancies and childbirth, will probably end a vagrant. Since he's already a skilled poacher, he doesn't see the point in the stress or expense of examinations.

Ana's father sees things differently. Though she has never said as much, Will knows Ana is terrified of the possibility of failing the exams because of what that would mean to her father. He doesn't know exactly why Ana's standing in Mathematics should matter when it is likely the grounds keeper's intention is to marry her off to a wealthy affiliate of Maleficent's, a thought which tightens the cold knot that is always in Will's stomach when he thinks of Ana's future or his own these days. But regardless of the reason, Will knows a high score matters to both the grounds keeper and his beguiling daughter, and so, even as his hands are busily at work weeding mother's vegetable garden, Will's mind is consumed with hope that everything is going well for Ana in the village.

"That girl sitting the examinations today in the village?" mother mostly refuses to acknowledge Anastasia's existence, but on the rare occasions she decides to bring her up, it's always 'that girl.'

Will knows exactly where this conversation is heading. He yanks at the weed in his hand with extra strength and swears loudly when the leaves come off in his hand, leaving the root firmly in the ground.

"Will! Language." Mother chides

"Sorry." He isn't sorry and she knows it, but there's no point in calling him on it so she keeps quiet and waits for him to answer her initial question. When he does it's without looking up at her. "Yes, Anastasia is writing her Maths exam today."

"Good. So we should see a lot more of you around here then."

Will digs around the top of the weed, exposing the root so he can grasp it between thumb and fingers to pull it out. "Why is that?" He knows his casual tone fools her not at all, but he's hoping she'll take it as a hint.

She doesn't. "Well, you've spent so much time trying to teach the poor thing, I thought you'd be pleased to be rid of her. "

Will clenches his jaw in irritation. It takes three deep breaths before he can speak without snapping. "Anastasia is my friend. I'm not going to 'be rid of her.'"

"Oh is that so?" Mother draws herself up I'm offense. "And what excuse is the Madame going to use on her daddy this time? Don't think she didn't lie to him before. You know what that man has done, how he feels about this family..."

She continues on, but Will is no longer listening. He was already on his feet before she could say ten words. Tossing his spade back in the bucket they use to protect the tools from the damp and the wood bugs, Will walks swiftly away. He doesn't have a destination in mind, he just needs to be away, far away. He walks until he can't hear his mother's distressed cries of "Will! Will Scarlet! Get back here!" anymore and then, because he has nowhere else to go, he walks some more. He doesn't stop until he reaches the village square and has to jump aside to avoid being struck by Ian Fletcher's cart.

Will looks around, feeling suddenly much younger than his sixteen years and very, very alone.


	7. Chapter 6

_A/N: sorry this one's a little late. This week has basically been Kamp Krusty. _

**Chapter 6 **

Anastasia has never had a headache quite like this. Two hours of squinting at triangles and squares, numbers and _x_'s all the while feeling quite convinced everything she thought she knew was wrong. The very skin of her face feels too tight, like trying to jam her feet into two year old shoes that are an inch shorter than her foot; and there's a pounding at her right temple, as if a small creature once living happily contained in her head now desperately wants to escape and is trying to do so by burrowing its way through the bone.

She emerges from the candle lit classroom into the afternoon sun wishing for all the world that she doesn't have to walk nearly four miles home when all she wants to do was sleep or cry. When her aching eyes first settle on Will's familiar shape, standing not twenty feet away, his back to her, she thinks it is a hallucination. But then he turns, and she is moving towards him almost before she decides that's what she wants to do.

Will sees her as soon as he turns. He could pick that face, that long blonde hair, out of any crowd. He smiles. For a moment, the disapproval of his mother, the potential problems his very existence could cause her with her father, and the fact that after today there can be no more afternoon math sessions in the grounds keeper's cottage all slip away, leaving only the light in her eyes and a constricted feeling in his chest. Somewhere in the last few months, Will Scarlet has become a sentimental fool and what's amazing is the fact that he doesn't mind at all.

He closes the space between them in quick, long strides, but the smile on his face fades when he gets close enough to see the pinched, tired look of pain on Anastasia's face. His hand raises almost of its own accord to brush a stray strand of hair out of her face, tucking it tenderly behind her ear. "Are you okay?" He keeps his voice low, sending instinctively that a normal volume will hurt her.

"Headache," she says and her voice is as tired and pinched as her face.

Will's mother gets headaches sometimes and he knows the only thing for her is a cool, dark, quiet room. The middle of the village square as exams are letting out is exactly the opposite. The summer afternoon is hot, the jubilant students are calling congratulations to one another at the top of their lungs to be heard over the general rumble of the village, and the sun is beaming down from a cloudless sky, bright enough it makes Will squint, and he doesn't have a headache. "Let's get you home," he says. Without caring who might see or what they might say, Will wraps an arm around Ana's shoulders and gently steers her away from the school, and the noise, and the curious eyes that have caught sight of the poacher's son and the grounds keeper's daughter in their intimate moment, and from the whispers and speculations that followed and lasted most of the week. All Will is worried about is getting Ana somewhere cool, dark, and quiet so she can rest.

For her part, Anastasia is in too much pain to consider the fact that she's leaning against Will's side, her head resting on his shoulder, letting him guide her steps so she doesn't have to even open her eyes to the harsh summer sunlight, for the whole village to see. If she hadn't had a headache she may well have worked herself up to one with fear about what father would say or think if he heard, but she did have a headache, and her self-preservation instincts were out of commission. All she cared about was how nice Will's arm felt around her, and how quickly they could escape the excruciating noise of the village.

They don't talk much. Will breaks the silence only to point out rough places in the path so Anastasia doesn't trip or fall. When the reach the edge of the clearing where the grounds keeper's cottage sits, Will stops. As much as he would like to be able to walk her to the door, even inside, make sure that she has a big glass of water and even a pot of mint tea like his mother always asks for when she's unwell, Will knows he can't.

Anastasia doesn't seem to want to leave him any more than he wants to leave her. Instead of walking off across the yard to her home, she buries her face against his chest for a moment. Her slender arms wrap around his waist in a tight embrace.

Will reciprocates, wrapping his other arm around her and pressing a kiss against her hair. "You should probably go inside, before your father sees." He whispers against her hair, although it hurts him to suggest it. She wrote her test today, and he knows she passed. So this could be goodbye.

Reluctantly, Anastasia lets go of him and steps back. She smiles at him, it's strained but genuine. "Thank you, Will."

"Anytime," he says lightly, as if there will be countless other opportunities for him to walk her home, hold her… kiss her. He wants to kiss her now, but she has a headache, and they're almost within sight of her father's cabin. He wants their first kiss to be something neither of them will ever forget – and he'd rather the unforgettableness not be because it was followed by her father chasing him off the property with a bow and arrow, or worse. So Will doesn't kiss her. He smoothes her hair where it was tousled by resting against him and then with a strained smile of his own steps back. "Goodbye, Anastasia."

"I'll see you soon." She counters, despite the pain in her head she manages a pointed look. "This isn't goodbye."

The urge to kiss her is almost overwhelming. "Okay," he says instead. He wants to believe her, but he is afraid. He's bloody terrified.

.

.

.

"I want you to come with me to the Forbidden Mountains tomorrow," Father says when dinner is finished and Anastasia is clearing the dirty dishes off the table.

'But tomorrow is Wednesday...' Anastasia almost says before the remembers two very important things: one, she's already written her exam, and two, father mustn't be given any reason to look too closely at it think too hard about her tutor. "Whatever will please you, Father, she says instead, heart dropping at the realization this means almost two weeks without seeing Will.

She wonders if she can send him a note, but then thinks better of it. She'll just have to explain and trust he'll understand. After all, he was the one who pointed out that they wouldn't have a reason to meet regularly anymore once she'd written her test.

The next morning Anastasia wakes up with bags under her eyes, exhausted from a night spent more in tossing and turning than sleep. She put on her best dress, the one she always wears on Wednesdays because she knows she'll see Will, and twists her long hair into a thick braid down her back. She doesn't know why Maleficent wants to see her, but knows instinctively that she will be expected to look her best even after the long ride up to the castle atop the Forbidden Mountains' highest peak.

Father doesn't comment on her appearance, nor does he explain why exactly he wants her to accompany him. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all as he devours four eggs and two scones and then disappears to saddle their horses for the journey. Not that she asks him. Curiosity, Anastasia knows, can be a dangerous thing. Besides, knowing something is coming and having any say whatsoever over whether you do it are two completely different things, and so long as she had none of the latter she thinks she's better off in the dark. For the two hours it takes to ride up the steep, narrow trail from the woody foothills to the highest peak of the Forbidden Mountains she tries to imagine all the best reasons father might request her presence. It's a testament to the nervous butterflies swooping through her stomach that the best she can come up with is 'Maleficent is lonely.'

Anastasia has never been to the castle, at least not that she can remember. Father has told her more than once that she used to play there as a child while he worked since there was no one else to care for her, but that had stopped long before she has memories of her life. She certainly doesn't feel like she's ever seen the castle before in her life as they round the final twist in the path and it springs into view, no longer hidden and obscured by the mighty pine trees carpeting the mountain. She unconsciously tugs back on her reins, bringing her mount to a halt.

It makes her feel small to look at it. Tall stone towers seemed to grow directly out of the mountain's face, jutting up into the sky, their pointed tops like daggers stabbing at the clouds. If Anastasia hadn't already been terrified of Maleficent, she thinks the sight of the castle probably would have made her terrified. No nice, benevolent ruler would choose to live in such a sinister edifice. Even the ever steady bay gelding beneath her dances nervously on his hooves, as if he would turn and run back down to the base of the mountain rather than continue forward through the castle walls.

Anastasia rubs a soothing hand under his mane and whispers, "It's okay boy, it's just a castle," as much to calm her own nerves as to keep him from bolting.

He shakes his great head, setting his mane bouncing against his neck and lets out a snort she interprets as disagreement. But when she squeezes her legs he ambles forward obediently, though he's walking a little slower than before.

Her father, who hadn't so much as slowed at the sight of Maleficent's palace, pulls his horse into a tight circle so he can glare at her. "Don't keep Maleficent waiting Anastasia!" He snaps.

"Sorry father," Anastasia mutters. She clicks her tongue and squeezes against the gelding's sides, urging him into a trot.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

By the second week of her 'lessons' with Maleficent, Anastasia has stopped feeling awed by the sorceress's castle. Now when she turns that final bend and the stone monolith fills her field of vision she feels nothing but loathing. She hasn't been told why Maleficent is suddenly keenly interested in teaching her how to 'be a lady,' but Anastasia isn't stupid, she has a pretty good idea. Yet the fury she feels at the thought her father and his boss are working together to make her a perfect lady for some nameless, faceless future husband is nothing to the fact that this is the third Wednesday in a row she knows she won't get to see Will.

As she slides off her horse and passes his reins to Maleficent's groom, Anastasia promises herself that she's not going to let father or Maleficent keep her apart from Will forever. The minute these ridiculous lessons are over, and father is away for more than the twenty minutes he spends tending their horses each evening, she is going to walk, or probably run, to Will's cottage. She doesn't even care if his mother, or any of the villagers see. She misses him, and not only because Maths lessons with Will were a million times more fun than what she's started calling 'princess lessons' in the Forbidden Fortress.

"Are you going to spend all day in the stable yard, or are you going to come inside and attempt to show me that I'm not wasting my time?" Maleficent's voice is smooth and cultured, and cold as ice.

Anastasia turns. Maleficent is standing at the top of a long stone staircase, her dark blue dress spilling over onto the second step, making her look even taller than she already is. Her blonde hair curls out around the horned headdress she favours, it gives her a wild, unrestrained appearance that Anastasia thinks perfectly captures the sorceress's unpredictable temperament. "I'm sorry, your excellence." Anastasia mutters, dropping into an awkward curtsey.

"Enough grovelling girl, get inside." Maleficent snaps. She turns in a dramatic swirl of blue velvet and purple silk, and disappears through the high stone arch of the doorway.

Anastasia half walks, half runs up the stairs after her. Maleficent's temper is as bad as father's, though the way she expresses anger could not be more different. Still, it's not a good idea to get on the sorceress's bad side, even if she wishes both father and Maleficent would give up this insane crusade to marry her off to some acquaintance – or even that they would own up to the fact that that was what they were doing so she could throw a proper fit about it. The last time she had tried to confront father about the entire affair he had told her to mind her betters and do as she was told and to stop asking questions. She'd stormed to her room and cried for an hour. It was hardly the actions of the mature young woman she wanted father to acknowledge she was, but these days at the Forbidden Fortress were long and stressful and by the time she came home she didn't want to get father his dinner or talk with false enthusiasm about how much she was learning and how grateful she was to father for arranging this opportunity, all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for sixteen hours straight.

The interior of the Forbidden Fortress is no less intimidating in its design than the exterior. Maleficent has a very definite aesthetic, one that never fails to make Anastasia feel ill at ease. The stone walls are mostly bare, except for the occasional ornate tapestry, usually painted to depict something horrible. Anastasia turns her eyes away form an exquisitely woven scene of a blood soaked soldier holding up the head of an ogre, a manic grin on his face with a shudder. She wonders who in the village is responsible for creating that monstrosity, she is almost entirely certain that Maleficent does no such work herself.

The room in which she has her lessons is slightly less horrifying to behold than the hallways dotted with gruesome tapestries. It's a small parlour, probably originally decorated for the use of the hired help. There are two divans, both covered with a deep green brocade, and several straight backed oak chairs set around a large rectangular oak table. It is in one of these chairs that she sits, careful to keep her back perfectly straight as Maleficent has instructed.

There is a tea service set out in the middle of the table. Two pristine white tea cups sit in their saucers, framing a large silver tea pot like sentinels. A cut crystal bowl filled with sugar crystals and a matching jug filled with frothy cream complete the setup. Anastasia has made tea thousands of times in her almost-sixteen years, but she has never had to worry about presentation or proper etiquette before today. She eyes the tea service with trepidation.

Maleficent is seated across the table. She looks every bit as regal and intimidating and larger than life sitting in this tiny room as she did standing at the top of the staircase. "Pour the tea dear." Though her tone is silky smooth, Anastasia knows anything that comes from the sorceress's lips is a command and to treat it as anything else is a dangerous game.

Taking a deep breath in hopes it will steady her trembling hands, Anastasia lifts the silver tea pot with one hand, and picks up a tea cup with the other. She is just beginning to tilt the pot so the hot tea will flow out into the cup when Maleficent sniffs derisively.

"Not like that, you idiotic child," she snarls. "Do you think anyone wants to drink tea after your grubby fingers have been all over the cup?"

Anastasia sets the cup back in its saucer with trembling fingers. The china clicks loudly and she flinches at the unexpected noise.

Maleficent huffs again but says nothing. She watches down the end of her nose as Anastasia takes another deep steadying breath and tries again.

This time Anastasia doesn't wrap her fingers around the cup as she would do at home, she pinches the handle between her thumb and the first two fingers on her left hand and, with half an eye on Maleficent starts to lift it off the plate. The sorceress's brows twitch ever so slightly upwards and Anastasia sets the cup back in the saucer, this time silently. She lifts it a third time, this time by holding on to the saucer, and the corner of Maleficent's mouth rises an infinitesimal amount.

Anastasia is able to pour a half cup of tea before Maleficent clears her throat pointedly. Startled, Anastasia let's some tea slop over the side of the cup into the saucer. "Oh!" she exclaims, barely managing not to upset the entire cup onto the table.

Princess lessons would be so much easier, she thinks bitterly, if Maleficent would just tell her what to do rather than trying to train her the way one trains a pigeon: watching it fumble about until it accidentally does what you want and then giving it a pellet of food as a reward.

.

.

.

"I didn't hold much hope for you in the beginning, my dear," Maleficent said, smearing a corner of her scone with strawberry jam, "but you are coming along quite nicely this week."

The unexpected and unprecedented compliment makes Anastasia as nervous as any of the sorceress's cutting remarks ever did. "Thank you, your excellency. You're too kind." She swirls her tea spoon in her cup, taking care not to let the silver spoon touch the china at all so that the motion is silent.

"In two weeks I will be hosting several guests," Maleficent continues.

Anastasia tried not to show how her interest has piqued at this announcement. Perhaps, after four interminable weeks, they are getting to the crux of these 'lessons.' "Shall we postpone these lessons until after your guests depart?" She asks, faking ignorance.

Maleficent laughs and Anastasia notes that this is the first laugh she's heard from the sorceress that wouldn't be better described as a cackle. Whatever the plan is that father and Maleficent have concocted for Anastasia, it clearly makes the sorceress happy. This realization is not comforting. "Of course not, my dear." Maleficent reaches across and pats Anastasia's hand with her cold, papery fingers. "I want you to meet my guests, and for my guests to meet you."

"I'm honoured." Anastasia lies. She hides the expression of dismay she is sure is in her eyes if not written in bold across her entire face by taking a sip of tea. Is this it? Is this the moment she has been dreading for the last eighteen days? Is she going to be told she must marry? Or worse, told that she is already betrothed and has been since birth and there is nothing anyone can or will do about it? The thought turns the tea to ash in her mouth.

"There is one guest I am especially eager for you to meet." Maleficent says in the conspiratorial tones of a teenager sharing secrets with her best friend in the wee hours of the morning. "The son of a long time friend, he is about your age I believe, maybe a year or two older. Very handsome lad, and smart as well. Not too smart, mind you, I don't think women like a man who is too smart. It wears on the soul to be overmastered by a man who thinks he knows everything."

"I wouldn't know, your excellency, but I bow to your greater wisdom." Anastasia is growing quite proud of her ability to lie on the spot. Of course she knows exactly what it is like to be 'overmastered' by a man who thinks he knows everything. She didn't know if she could have come up with a better way to describe her father if she tried for weeks on end. But she wasn't about to confide in Maleficent, even if the sorceress seemed to be in a sharing, bonding sort of mood today. Anastasia could never forget the malevolent look on Maleficent's face the night John Scarlet was dragged into the grounds keeper's cabin. This woman was evil, even when it wasn't showing itself obviously on her face.

"You are quite the innocent aren't you?"

Anastasia can't tell if that is admiration or censure in Maleficent's tone, so she keeps her mouth occupied with another sip of tea in hopes she won't be expected to respond.

Maleficent, for once, acts in accordance to Anastasia's unspoken wish, continuing. "You really should thank your father for that. There is nothing more distasteful to a man of breeding than a woman who has given away her innocence."

A flush rises in Anastasia's cheeks as she realizes exactly what the sorceress means by _innocence_. "I-I have—I would never…" she stammers.

Maleficent laughs again. "Of course not dear." She sips her own tea. "If you had, your father would have had your hide, we both know that, don't we?"

Anastasia stares at her with wide eyes, she can't respond. There is no way she can lie her way out of admitting her father can be quite violent when he's angry, nor can she lie and tell Maleficent that her father would not be enraged if he learned anyone had despoiled his daughter, but there is a part of her that remains loyal to her father even now. It's that part of her that stoppers her mouth, refusing to admit to anyone what she knows he is capable of.

"That wasn't really a question." Maleficent says with a smirk that tells Anastasia the sorceress knows exactly what thoughts have been flowing through her mind as she searched for an acceptable answer. "Now, let us talk about your dresses." Maleficent runs her eyes over Anastasia, her upper lip curling in distaste. "I can't have you meeting Henri in those rags, that wouldn't do at all."

Despite herself, Anastasia feels a flare of excitement. She hasn't had more than one new dress a year since she can remember. The dress she is wearing now, and has worn nearly every time she has visited the Forbidden Fortress, is faded and patched, yet it is the best thing she owns. She tries to imagine the look on Will's face if she showed up wearing a dress like the ones Maleficent always wore: all rich, sensuous fabric and tightly laced corsets.

.

.

.

Will knows he's sulking, but he can't seem to help it. Mother is still pretending their disagreement never happened, though he knows she hasn't forgotten by the fact she hasn't made a dig about Ana in the nearly four weeks since. Of course, that might also be because she knows he hasn't seen in those four weeks either. It's that last fact that has him in a permanent bad mood.

Every Wednesday he hopes he'll see her as he walks his lines, a task that takes him twice as long as it used to because he spends so much time peering into the bushes in case he can catch a glimpse of her. Each week he tells himself he'll just walk up to the cabin and pound on the door until she opens, but he never does. He's using her father as an excuse, but the real reason is that he's afraid Anastasia doesn't want to see him. After all, she got what she needed - a distraction, a Maths tutor – and maybe she doesn't need him around anymore. The thought makes him feel sick, but he can't shake it no matter how many times he tells himself his mother is entirely wrong about Anastasia, everyone is. She's his friend.

At least when he's splitting logs for the fire he doesn't feel like he might scream. The repetitive work gives him entirely too much time to wallow, but at least the violent action of swinging the axe eases some of the sickening tightness in his chest. Will has already split enough wood in the last four weeks to last them most of the winter, but wood is the only commodity they have in abundance on the small lot mother inherited from her father at his death and Will hopes he can sell some of the excess in the village.

"Is how you spend all your days when you're not with me?"

Will spins around at the familiar voice. "Ana!" He drops his axe and envelopes her in a hug before he can remember that he's afraid to call her Ana to her face in case she doesn't like it, or that he thought she never wanted to see him again. She fits perfectly in his arms, nestling against his chest as if it's where she's always wanted to be.

When Will finally lets her go, Anastasia smiles up at him. "I passed!" She says. Her eyes are sparkling with excitement. She's been bursting to tell him since yesterday when she found out, but when she asked father if she could go tell 'Jack,' he said no. Father has been especially ornery all week and, after he had refused her – rather, after he said "Why on earth would you waste your time walking all the way to the village to tell your tutor he's fired? I'm sure he figured it out one of the last three Wednesdays when you weren't here" - she didn't want to risk his anger by sneaking off to the village.

"I knew you would!" He says, smiling down at her.

She entwines her fingers with his and says shyly, "I couldn't have done it without you, Will. Thank you."

"I don't believe there is anything you can't do, Anastasia."

"Call me Ana," she says, flashing him the joyful smile that takes his breath away.

Will leans slowly towards her. He feels like he's falling into her warm, luminous eyes. "Ana," he whispers seconds before his lips crash into hers.


	9. Chapter 8

A/N: _Warning: this chapter deals with abuse._

**Chapter 8**

"Where have you been?"

Father's tone sends a dart of fear racing down Anastasia's spine. When she'd been given the day off from her lessons at the Forbidden Fortress, she had assumed that it was because Maleficent and father needed to meet to decide her future and they would rather do it without her present. When she'd run down to the Scarlet cottage she'd thought she had at least an hour before father could possibly make it back home and another twenty minutes before he would realize she wasn't just gone to the well for more water.

She hadn't expected Will to kiss her. Just that thought sets her smiling. If she closes her eyes she thinks she can still feel his lips against hers. The kiss had caught her off guard. Not that she hadn't been thrilled, but she had gotten sort of used to thinking Will might kiss her only to have him back off instead that until his lips met hers she was just waiting for him to suddenly pull back and run away like the first time.

"Anastasia!" Father's sharp reprimand reminds Anastasia that she didn't actually answer his question.

"I'm sorry father." She says automatically, bending to unlace her boots. "I wanted to let Jack know that I had passed my exam and that there would be no need for additional study sessions as I will not be taking any further Maths." The lie was feeble, and even if he bought it she wasn't sure it would spare her his wrath, since he had quite emphatically told her that Jack would figure it out on his own so there was no need for her to 'waste her time,' but it was the best she could come up with. "Shall I make us dinner?" She sets her boots nearly side by side under the small wooden bench by the door and moves towards the pantry.

"Sit down." Father orders, stepping between her and her destination and pointing to the table.

Anastasia does as she is told, ignoring the instincts that tell her to flee now while she still can. "I really am sorry, father." She says, hoping to appease him before he has a chance to show her what a disappointment she is.

"Do you think I am a fool, Anastasia?" Father looms over her as he asks this so she would have to lean back in her chair and strain her neck if she wanted to see his face.

Anastasia doesn't lean back or strain her neck. Looking father in the eyes when he is angry is usually a way to make him even more angry. So she drops her head, focusing on her small white hands, clenched together in her lap, and whispered penitently, "Of course I do not think you're a fool, father. Why ever would you say that?"

She feels and hears his fist contact the wall at the same time and flinches.

"Don't play dumb with me, miss." He snarls in a darker voice than she remembers ever hearing from him before. "You were with that boy." Before Anastasia's 'what boy?' can leave her lips, he clarifies. "The poacher's son you think I don't know about."

_Will_! Fear constricts Anastasia's throat so she couldn't respond even if she could think of something to say.

Father doesn't seem to care if she can speak or not. He has plenty to say for the both of them. "Did you think I would let you hire some village idiot to come into my home week after week and not check? Do you think I don't hear the village gossip you exposed yourself to? Are you so stupid-?"

Anastasia stops listening. She can't take in anymore, not right now. She needs to think, or escape. She can't just be here, listening to father yell, listening to him asking all his questions, none of which he actually wants her to answer.

"— gallows is that what you want? It's what you deserve. You useless little slut!"

It's the word gallows that really brings Anastasia's attention back. Her heart leaps to her throat. "Father, please!"

"_Father please_," he echoes in a mocking tone. His eyes burn dark with anger. "Do you know what you could have cost me? Cost us?"

"I'm sorry."

"Is that all you have to say for yourself?"

Suddenly, as if a lever flips inside of her, Anastasia isn't afraid anymore. There's no room for fear. The anger that's been building inside of her for at least a decade has boiled and bubbled up until it's pushed aside every other emotion, there's no room for fear or love or even self-preservation only anger, and she can't keep it in any more. "When are you going to realize I'm not a child anymore? I'm nearly sixteen years old. You can't tell me who I can be friends with, who I can lo—" she cuts herself off by clapping both hands over her mouth. She had never yelled at her father before, but it isn't the yelling that sets her heart pounding so loudly in her ears she almost can't hear him when he starts to speak, it's what she almost said. Words she hasn't even let herself think nearly poured from her mouth in front of _father_. She hunches her shoulders towards her ears as if she could shrink away from the angry waves radiating from father's form.

"You want to be an adult, do you?" He asks in a dead calm voice that is more terrifying that any yell could be. "Okay then." He pulls out a chair and settles himself at the table.

Anastasia can't take her eyes off him. She thought she had seen every kind of anger her father knew how to display, but this eerie chill is new and she can't figure out what to make of it. It reminds her of Maleficent.

"Now that you're an adult, there's a story I've been waiting sixteen years to tell you."

_A story? _Anastasia pulls her knees up against her chest, hugging them to her as she waits, wide eyes and silent for father to continue. She has no idea what is coming, and nothing in her life has prepared her to hear this.

Her father smiles, the kind of smile more at home on the face of a shark than a human, and then, in short, cutting sentences, he tells her what really happened sixteen years ago, and who she really is.

_The grounds keeper's wife's name was Natalie, but no one ever called her that. In the village and up the Forbidden Mountain she was merely 'the grounds keeper's wife.' She was a beautiful woman. Her golden hair hung to the back of her knees, her blue eyes put corn flowers and even the summer sky to shame, and she had the sweetest lips, lush like ripe cherries and nearly as red. _

_The grounds keeper doted on her. He bought her anything she desired and gave her every comfort his gold could buy. The one thing he could not give her was a baby. Years passed and though the grounds keeper sought help from every witch and healer in the land, none could give him what he wanted. And then, one day, Natalie announced she was pregnant. The couple was overjoyed. _

_On the day of the child's birth, Maleficent descended from the forbidden mountain to visit the new baby. Despite the festive occasion, the sorceress was dressed head to toe in black, her husband having been tragically killed in a riding accident only a few months earlier. _

_No one was expecting Maleficent. The birth of a child is a common thing, nothing to be celebrated, except by the parents whose new burden has come squalling into the world waving her chubby infant arms. Yet, to have Maleficent arrive to see their baby was the highest honour for the grounds keeper and his beautiful wife. _

_When Maleficent took the tiny baby in her arms, the couple fell silent and waited eagerly to hear what she would say. The grounds keeper thought she might, as people do, comment on the baby's weight, or the tuft of white hair sticking out in every direction from the top of her head. _

_She did not. "You shall name this baby Anastasia," the sorceress commanded. _

_The grounds keeper and his wife, who had rather liked the names Katherine or Rose exchanged looks, but neither was brave enough to dispute with their mistress. Nor would they have wanted to by the time she finished. _

_Maleficent continued to speak, not noticing any of the looks shared by her audience. "For she will have to be reborn to be a member of this household." _

_The grounds keeper did not understand. "She is our daughter, flesh of our flesh," he said, "does not that make her always a member of our house your excellency?"_

_Maleficent laughed. "She is not flesh of your flesh, grounds keeper." She turned her cold eyes to the grounds keeper's wife. "Ask _her_ whose flesh this child is." _

"_Natalie?" It hurt the grounds keeper to question his wife's honour, for she was his One True Love and he could not imagine she would betray him. _

"_I-I'm sorr-" the grounds keeper's wife began, but she was never given a chance to finish. With a flick of her wrist, Maleficent ripped her throat open and the rest of her apology was a gurgle. _

"_Here, games keeper," Maleficent held the child out for him to take, "take your child. My husband's bastard, the living proof that you married a strumpet. If you are man enough, raise her as your own and we shall profit from her advantageous marriage. If you are not, drown her in the river, but drown yourself as well, for I have no use for cowards—" _

"You're lying!" the words burst from Anastasia's lips. She refuses to believe it, even though she knows, somewhere deep in her gut, that every word is true.

Father's hand flies out, striking her across the face before she can even see it coming. It's not the first time, which is why, despite the pain radiating through her jaw, Anastasia doesn't even flinch. The anger is still there, burning white hot within her, giving her a reckless sort of courage. She glares at father silently for several silent seconds. He doesn't apologize anymore and she doesn't expect him to. She wouldn't believe him anyway.

She rises to her feet slowly and backs from the room. She may not be good at Maths, but Anastasia is a quick learner, and she learned before the age of seven that turning her back on father when he is angry is a mistake.

She shuts the door of her room firmly and slides the wooden bolt she added to the door just after her ninth birthday into place. Safe, for the moment at least, she sags against the wood, hot tears streaming down her face.

She'll never be like them. That's one thing Anastasia knows with utmost certainty. She'll never let herself be anything like him. Father, she still calls him that in her head even though she knows now that he isn't her father and never wanted to be, isn't cruel because he needs to be, he doesn't accomplish anything by his cruelty that he couldn't accomplish by other means. He's cruel because he enjoys it, and worse, because he can't help himself. It's the lack of control that Anastasia hates the most. It's weakness.

But she'll never be like _her_ either. In their anger, Maleficent and father have much in common. But Maleficent's rage is something else entirely next to father's. Maleficent's cruelty has purpose. It too is at times governed by a sheer enjoyment of other people's pain, but it never takes the form of uncontrolled rage-fuelled violence like his does. Anastasia knows, though she has never had the misfortune to witness Maleficent's rage first hand, that Maleficent would never throw a chair at her because she spilled a bowl of soup. Oh no, the punishment for such a crime would be much more insidious, and infinitely more painful in the end.

Maleficent was the woman who had killed her husband's mistress and then sent her husband's bastard daughter to live with the dead woman's cuckolded husband. If Anastasia had spilled soup in front of Maleficent, she would probably have ended up swinging the axe at the execution of the cook who'd made the soup. Because unlike father, whose quick flares of violence were always directed at the nearest person regardless of their responsibility for his ire, Maleficent's anger spread until everyone who was even remotely connected to the reason for her rage felt it. Anastasia should know, her entire life to this point had been governed by Maleficent's need for vengeance.

No, Anastasia wasn't going to be like either of them. But she wasn't going to be a passive victim anymore either. She was sixteen years old. It was time to take her life in her own hands, before father got his way and took that life away with his bare fists.

There were stories, the Enchanted Forest was full of stories, of a woman, once the daughter of a miller and now the mother of a Queen, who could spin straw to gold and rip the still beating heart out of a man without killing him. That is the kind of vengeance Anastasia dreams of. Not inflicting pain, but holding enough power and wealth that no one can hurt her, not her father, not Maleficent, not Will Scarlet, not _anyone_.

She stays there, leaning against the rough wood of the door until she hears father's even snores. It hurts to move at first, her muscles have seized into the slightly slouched posture she held for so many hours. She doesn't pack, she doesn't really have anything _to_ pack. She just grabs her warmest coat and her most sensible shoes, and then she's gone. The peaty ground muffles the sound of her feet hitting the ground as she tiptoes and then runs away from the cabin. She doesn't look back.

* * *

_A/N: Next week's chapter will likely not be posted on Sunday as I am moving across the country and will be sans home internet for a few days until I get settled. I will try to get organized and get it set up so I can post from my phone or a coffee shop or something, but if I don't, I will definitely post it by Christmas day. _

_Thanks everyone for reading. Please review. _


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Will is woken by the sound of someone knocking at the door. He rolls out of bed and fumbles in the dark for his pants. He is still trying to get them fastened when he hears his mother's voice, raised in anger.

"Leave!"

A soft female voice answers her, but Will is too far away to hear what the woman outside says. He doesn't need to hear the words, however, to know who it is. _Ana!_ He gives up on the infernal buttons of his fly and hurries toward the front of the cabin.

"You're not wanted here!" Mother cries. She goes to slam the door shut in Anastasia's face, but Will gets there just in time to rip it from her hands and fling it fully open.

Ana is standing in the dirt outside, her cheeks are red and streaked with the traces of tears. She looks young and scared and so very, very sad that Will doesn't even stop to think what mother will feel before he is outside, pulling Ana into his arms. "Anastasia? Ana! What's wrong?" His voice is soft, but urgent. His desire to comfort her wars with his desire to find whoever or whatever hurt her and grind it into dust and he tightens his hold on her trembling body.

"M-my f-fath-er…" She stammers in a thick, tear soaked voice he has never heard before. She seems to lose her ability to speak, but her arms come up to wrap around him and she buries her face against his chest, just like she'd done when she had that horrible headache after her Maths exam – it feels like a lifetime ago.

"It's okay." Will kisses her hair and rubs her back soothingly with one hand. "I'm right here, you're safe." He wants to believe that, but he also knows he's a sixteen year old boy and there're only so many demons he can tackle.

"She can't stay here."

Will had forgotten his mother was even there until she spoke. He flinches at her words and her icy tone. Here again is that stranger who so often inhabits his mother's body, ever since father was taken. Ignoring her for the moment, Will brings his hands up to cradle Ana's face. "Ana," he says in his gentlest voice, "wait for me in the workshop. No one will look for you there, and I'll come to you soon."

She doesn't even try to argue, and that hurts Will almost as much as mother's coldness or the sight of the tear tracks on Ana's face. His Ana is always ready to fight him on something. That fiery spirit is part of what he loves – well, likes a whole lot anyway - about her. He watches until Ana disappears from sight inside the small shed he uses to skin his catches and tan the hides before he turns to face his mother.

"How could you?" She asks the very question that was on the tip of his tongue as soon as he is facing her.

"How could _you_?" He spits back. "She's sixteen, and my _friend_, and she's upset."

"You know who her father is." Mother is unrepentant. Her narrow brown eyes look like pinpricks in her angry face. "I told you to stop spending time with her. She's trouble."

"You don't know her."

"I don't need to. They're all the same."

Will can't even find words to respond to that. He knows mother is angry about what happened to father, to 'her dear John,' and he even knows that she has a right to this anger, but he can't understand why she refuses to believe him that Anastasia is nothing like her father. "Please," he begs. "Please, mother." He closes the distance between them and takes his mother's hands in his. "Help her."

"No." She pulls away from him as if he's contaminated.

For what feels like much longer than the minute it is, they stand there staring at each other: mother and son, neither willing to budge. At last, Will's mother speaks "Are you coming in?"

"Can Ana?"

She folds her arms across her chest. She doesn't need to say anything, Will knows her answer.

"Don't make me choose." He knows there really is not choice. If she doesn't relent he knows exactly what he will do, he knew it the minute he heard Ana's muffled voice through the walls of his room, but that certainty doesn't make it any less painful.

"You come inside and agree to stay away from that girl, and we'll forget this ever happened." Mother's eyes are damp, she knows as well as Will does what he will choose, but she refuses to budge.

Will leans forward and kisses her on the cheek. "I'm sorry Mother." He means it, though what exactly he's sorry about he isn't sure. Is he sorry for what he's doing to her - for choosing Anastasia over his own flesh and blood, even if that flesh and blood feels more like a stranger every year - or is he sorry _for_ her – sorry that she can't bend and that she'll never get to know the amazing person that Anastasia is or see the strong, loving family man Will sometimes thinks he can become with Ana at his side? It doesn't really matter in the end. "Goodbye." He says, turning and walking across the yard. He doesn't look back until he's at the door to his shed, and when he does it's too late, she is already gone.

"Will?" Anastasia touches his arm, bringing his attention back to her and the shed.

He turns and kisses her softly. It's as much for himself as for her. He knows, or he thinks he knows, that he made the right decision; Ana is his future. But that decision hurts and he needs the moment of reassurance, the grounding feeling of Ana's lips pressed against his to make him sure. When they break apart he holds her face between his hands for a long time, studying her with his eyes. "Are you alright?" He asks finally.

He feels more than sees her shrug. "Are you?"

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "As long as I have you, I think I will be."

This time she kisses him.

When they break apart, Will steps into the shed and fumbles for a candle. "What happened?" He asks once its lit and he can make out her face in the dim, flickering light.

Anastasia avoids his eyes, but eventually she tells him. "Father heard gossip in the village about you and me."

Will's heart sinks. "The day you wrote your exam?" He guesses. He should have known that day that embracing Ana in public would start talk. Somehow it just hadn't mattered.

She shrugs again. "I suppose, he was too busy threatening your life to explain." She takes Will's hand and squeezes it. "It's not the poaching, or even your father. I—" she cut herself off.

When it's obvious she isn't going to continue on her own, Will prompts her, "What is it?"

"Maleficent and my father were _grooming _me so they could sell me off to the highest bidder."

Will stares at her, flabbergasted. Maleficent he could understand, assuming there was something in the match for her. But… "Your father was in on it?"

She bursts into giggles although her face looks more like she wants to cry than laugh. "My father… has… been dead… since… before I was… born." She gasps the words out between giggles.

"I— The grounds keeper isn't your father?" Will's brain is finding it nearly impossible to follow her words.

She nods. Taking a few shuddering breaths, she manages to get her hysterical giggling under control and she quickly fills Will in on the rest of what she learned that night. Well... most of it. "My real father was Maleficent's husband. When she found out her husband was in love with my mother, had gotten her pregnant, she killed him. Then she waited until my mother gave birth to me, and she killed her too. She gave me to my father to raise or kill as he saw fit."

"So Maleficent…"

"I'm Maleficent's illegitimate step daughter, in a way."

"Wow."

She smiles, although there really is nothing to smile about today. "I'm also exhausted." She admits.

Will makes a sweeping gesture with one arm. "Welcome to your home for the night."

"Your mother…?"

He shakes his head.

Ana kisses him softly. "I'm sorry, Will."

"Me too."

.

.

.

They spend the night in the shed. The summer air is warm so the lack of bedding, while uncomfortable, isn't really a problem. But Will knows they can't stay in his mother's shed beyond sun up. About an hour before dawn he slips his arm out from under Ana and creeps into the house. He retrieves the small bag of silver he's been saving from the grounds keeper's monthly tutoring payments as well as a change of clothes, a loaf of bread and a small sack of potatoes: provisions for their journey. He doesn't know where they will go, but one thing is certain, they cannot stay in the shadow of the Forbidden Mountain for another day.


	11. Chapter 10

_A/N: Hope everyone had a happy Christmas! I survived my move despite the ice storm and am all settled in to my new home. :) _

**Chapter 10**

They leave before first light and travel most of three days, putting as much distance as they can between themselves and the Forbidden Mountain. Neither has ever been far from home, but the best thing about fleeing a mountain is that it is relatively easy to know if you are going the right way. So long as they keep the mountain behind them, Will knows they are getting safer by the hour. Still, Ana is not used to hard walking and by the end of the third day even her stubbornness is looking worn. When they find the abandoned cottage it seems like magic - as if their combined exhaustion and desperation has worked to conjure it out of thin air. The roof is in need of repair and the curtains are faded and moth eaten, but these signs of neglect bother them not at all. In fact, for Will, the obvious neglect means this is a safe place to rest. It seems no one has been here in months, maybe even years.

By sundown Will has patched the roof over the small sleeping quarters, and Anastasia has found a kettle and a faded but otherwise unharmed patchwork quilt inside an old cedar chest. There is nothing glamorous about sleeping on the floor (the old straw tick mattress has mildewed and Will says it needs to be emptied, boiled and re-stuffed before they dare sleep on it) of an abandoned home, but to Will and Anastasia, whose last two nights were spent trading off sleeping and keeping watch, the roof overhead and four reasonably solid walls seem like the height of luxury.

In the morning, Will wakes to the smell of mint tea and toasted bread. He follows his nose, still bleary eyed from sleep, through the doorway into the main room of the two room cottage. Anastasia has lit a fire in the grate and is using a cast iron pan she found among the former tenants' abandoned possessions to toast the last few stale pieces of bread remaining from what Will had taken from his mother's house.

She smiles up at Will. "There's mint in the garden, and parsley. I thought perhaps you could set a trap line this morning while I clean this place out and then we could try and find something to stuff the mattress. I remember three years ago when a frost came in July and spoiled most of the hay we used moss. It doesn't smell as nice, of course, but it is comfortable enough and I think will be easier to acquire." The words tumble out in an excited rush and Will realizes Anastasia is making plans to stay here.

There is a part of him that thinks they're still too close to Maleficent. He wants to run until they hit the sea, and maybe even cross it, but Ana looks so excited that he can't bring himself to deny her this. _Besides_, he justifies to himself, _if Maleficent really wants to hunt us down, there's nowhere in the Enchanted Forest we can hide. _"Sounds like you have it all planned out," he says dropping to the floor beside her and snagging a piece of toast from the pan.

"Always." She grins at him.

It is a good plan and by the end of the day the cottage has gone from being comfortable when compared to the cold, damp floor of the forest to a cosy place Will thinks he might even come to think of as a home. He finds a stream not far away and there's clean water to drink and freshly caught trout for dinner. He found several signs of rodent runs and thinks there will be a hare or two snared by morning. All of this means Will is in an excellent mood when he re-enters the cottage just after sun down.

Anastasia is crouched in front of the fire, watching the trout Will caught sizzle in a combination of their own juices and the herbs she found in the long abandoned garden out front. Kicking off his boots and shrugging out of his jacket, Will joins her on the hearth. The warmth of the fire seeps through his skin right to his bones and he thinks he's never felt anything nicer. That is until Ana leans over and kisses him softly on the lips. That is certainly the nicest feeling in all the world. He cradles her face between his hands. Her skin is soft and warm under his fingers as he deepens the kiss.

The smell of something burning jolts them back to the hearth, and to the fire which is burning their dinner. Ana uses the edge of her skirt to protect her hand from the heat of the cast iron handle and pulls the pan from the fire and sets it on the flagstone hearth between them. She looks at Will through the cloud of smoke pouring off their blackened dinner looking so horrified that Will bursts into laughter. After a few seconds, Ana joins him.

The fish isn't entirely ruined. When they have laughed themselves out Ana separates out the still edible centres and they eat in silence. It's a meagre meal, and not particularly delicious, but they devour it anyway. Three days of travel with only a few stolen potatoes and loaves of bread for sustenance followed by a long hard day setting up their home left them both famished.

When the food, at least the edible parts, is gone Will carries the pan off to the creek to clean it in the flowing water while Ana takes the slightly moth eaten linens she found at the bottom of the abandoned cedar chest and makes up the bed. She spent a large part of the afternoon gathering moss and lichen and other soft, dry things the forest had to offer to stuff inside the mattress cover she'd boiled and hung to dry in the summer sun. It was no feather bed, but she is determined to believe that their days sleeping on the floor are over.

She's nervous. Though she and Will have spent the last four nights sleeping side by side, the presence of a bed, even one stuffed with refuse from the forest and covered with stolen linens, somehow makes this night different. She knows her reputation was lost the moment she fell asleep next to Will in his mother's shed, but reputation and reality were worlds apart. She knew what it felt like to sleep with her head pillowed against the scratchy linen of Will's shirt, but not how his skin would feel pressed up against hers. But she wanted to, and that was what made her the most nervous of all.

She loosens her dress and slips it over her head, leaving only a white tunic between her and the fire-warmed air. She drapes her dress over the back of a chair and then moves to stand before the fire. There is something soothing about just watching the wood burn and she is so lost in watching the dance of the flames that she doesn't hear Will come in. She doesn't even notice he's there until he stands behind her, so close she can feel the heat of him rivalling that of the fading fire in the hearth, and wraps his arms around her waist. He doesn't say anything, she doesn't need him to.

Will's nose brushes against the side of her neck, and then he is planting gentle, open mouthed kisses from the base of her ear down to her clavicle. Ana tilts her head to the side to give him easy access, closing her eyes and savouring the feeling of his skin against hers.

One of his hands glides up her body, skimming over her stomach and caressing her breast through the thin fabric of her tunic, touching her in a way she has never been touched before. It feels so different, his hand on her breast, than hers ever did and suddenly she knows that she needs more.

She grasps the bottom of her tunic begins to pull it up. Will's hand on hers stills her movement.

"Are you sure?" His voice is hoarse.

"Yes." She says, and she knows it to be true. She wants this. Wants Will, wants to throw off that last bit of maidenhood, wants to cleave herself to him, for tonight, for eternity.

Will helps her push her tunic over her head this time. His fingers tremble, fear and excitement. He's never done this before, but he's dreamed of it. His eyes rake over the curves of Anastasia's figure hungrily and then, suddenly his world comes to a screeching halt.

There is a big yellowing bruise across her back, and as his eyes scan the rest of her body he notices more: a network of small, silvery-white scars mar her otherwise flawless pale skin. "Anastasia?" He asks, his fingers ghosting over the yellowed bruise on her back are gentle, but his voice is hard.

She tries to laugh it off, dismiss it. "We've been sleeping on the ground for days, Will. I'm sure you have a few bruises of your own." but Will knows what a beating looks like.

"I'll kill him"

"Will, you can't." She turns so they are face to face.

"I don't care."

"Listen to me, Will." She places her hands on either side of his face and holds him still until she feels the tension leave his jaw and his eyes lock with hers. She's so close that her bare breasts brush against his chest, but neither of them notices. "I don't want to lose you."

"You won't."

"If you go after my father, I will lose you." She wills him to believe her. "Even if you can kill him before he kills you, do you think Maleficent will just turn a blind eye? She's may already be out for your head once father tells her we've gone. Don't give her another reason to hunt us down."

Will's eyes close and she can feel the defeat in the slump of his posture. She slides her arms around him, pulling him close. Their lips meet. The first kiss is perfunctory, Will is angry and she is uncertain. But then his arms come around her, holding her gently, his calloused fingers splayed over her naked skin, as though she might break, and he returns her kisses in earnest.

It's not graceful, but she manages to manoeuvre him across the room to their bed. She lays back against the newly stuffed moss mattress covered with the worn, faded patchwork quilt, pulling him with her. She's never done this before, but she's heard and seen enough to know what to do. She thinks about the fact that their first kiss was only four days before and she wants to laugh and cry all at once, she'd been so happy, so innocent, and now look at her. But then Will's tongue slips between her lips and she stops thinking altogether.

It hurts. The final loss of her innocence, a sharp sting of pain amidst the pleasure. She thinks it's right that it hurt. Big moments in her life have always hurt.

Later, curled up on her side, with Will's arm around her waist, his breath against her ear, the air inside their little home warm against her naked skin, Anastasia makes a decision. "Will?"

He hums sleepily, acknowledging that he heard her, and presses a kiss against her shoulder.

"If there was a way to erase everything bad that's happened, or to escape it, and start fresh, would you do it?"

The bed shifts beneath her as Will props himself up on one elbow so he can turn her face to meet his. "Not if it meant leaving you." He says pressing a soft kiss against her lips like sealing a promise. "I love you, Ana, and I'm not going to lose you."

"But if we could be together in this new land, without my father or Maleficent or anyone who wanted to hurt us. If we could start a new life in a new place, together, would you?"

A slow smile spreads across Will's face. "A new life with you without having to look over our shoulders? Where do I sign up?"

Anastasia pushes herself up so she is sitting with her back against the wall. It occurs to her that she should be embarrassed by the bareness of her chest, but she is too consumed with her plan to bother with her tunic or her embarrassment. "It won't be easy." She says, squinting her eyes in a parody of deep thought, as if she hasn't been spending every waking moment of the last three days planning this. When Maleficent showed Anastasia her collection nearly two weeks ago, pointing out the priceless and the sinister, though whether to impress Anastasia or make her afraid had never been clear, the looking glass had been the only item that really caught her fancy. It's power to take someone away from this world seemed almost too good to be true. Now she had nothing to lose in the Enchanted Forest, and fear gave her the reckless courage to carry out the plan she had concocted. "There's a looking glass."

"A looking glass?" Will had rolled on his back and now he tilts his head back to look up at her. His thick eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "What does a looking glass have to do with anything?"

She absently caresses the spikey hair on the top of Will's head. "This is no ordinary looking glass. There are stories of another world, a world one can only enter with the help of magic. The looking glass is like a gateway between this world and that one."

"So we get the looking glass, step through it, and we're in a new land where none of our problems can follow us." A quick smile flashes across Will's face before he returns to a more thoughtful expression. "What's to stop your father, or anyone else from following us through to this new world?"

"That's not the problem." Anastasia replies.

"Then what is the problem, love? Spit it out."

"Maleficent."

"Well yes, her existence is a problem." Will's tone tells her he's not taking this particularly seriously and she bites down hard on her tongue to control an urge to slap him. "But I'm a thief, not a dragon slayer, so she is someone else's problem."

"We don't need her dead. We just need someone," she lets her hand drift down from his hair to caress the side of his face, "a thief, to steal the mirror from her castle."

"Well, then." Will turns his head and kisses her palm. "It's a good thing you've got me, isn't it?"

Anastasia smiles. "Yes it is." Before he can ask any more questions or think too deeply about the mirror or the plan to get it, or the hundreds of reasons why he should probably be suspicious of her spur of the moment plan, Anastasia rubs the side of her foot suggestively against Will's bare thigh. "I'm _very_ lucky to have you."

Will doesn't need her to make the suggestion twice.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Unfortunately for Will and Anastasia, knowing what one needs to acquire and actually acquiring it are two distinctly different things. While Will is confident that once in Maleficent's fortress he will be able to find and pocket the looking glass without anyone being the wiser, actually getting into the fortress of a sorceress who might well have put a price on his head is no easy task. Months pass, and even their cosy little cottage begins to feel more like a holding cell than a home. But eventually, when Will feels like they should give up on this new life in a new land and simply accept that the Enchanted Forest is to be their home, they hear the rumours, and suddenly everything seems possible again.

"Will! Will!" Anastasia's voice precedes her into the clearing.

Will looks up from the garden where he's been working all afternoon planting potatoes and peas. Her urgent cries send a jolt of pure adrenaline through him. Have they been found? It's a worry that should have grown more distant by the day – he knows full well that if Maleficent wanted them hunted down she would have found them long ago – but instead it's a worry that consumes his waking and sleeping hours. Each time he walks to the nearest village to sell the pelts of their catches and buy the things they cannot forage for themselves, he fears that someone will see them and cry out "There! He's the one Maleficent is looking for!" and he'll find himself clapped in irons and dragged back to the Forbidden Mountain to be executed in front of the sorceress. Worse still is the sick clutch of fear he feels when Ana walks to the village. It never eases until she walks back into view, usually smiling widely and carrying some luxury item they can't really afford under one arm. She insists that they make life as comfortable as possible for now. After all, in their new home their money will probably be no good, so there's no point in saving it.

"Ana, what's happened?" Will asks, catching her by the shoulders and scanning her body for injuries. "Are you alright?"

"Better than alright!" Her eyes dance with excitement. "I found it, Will. Or… it's found us." She gives him a meaningful look, but Will isn't following.

His voice is sharp with worry and he barely refrains from shaking her as he asks the questions burning in his mind. "What did you find? What's found us?"

Ana takes his face in her hands and kisses him soundly and then says "I found our way in, Will." She kisses him again, softer this time. "I found our way into Maleficent's fortress. We're getting out of here."

A slow smile spreads across Will's face. "You found it." He repeats in an awed kind of voice. Without warning he grasps her around the waist and spins, sending Ana's skirts flying.

She squeals and then bursts into joyful laughter.

When Will finally sets her down they're both breathless, and her hair is a disaster. Still smiling ear to ear, Will smoothes the blonde tresses. "So, what is it?"

Ana's grin fades. Her blue eyes are suddenly very serious. "Robin Hood and his Merry Men."

Will's brow raises. He's heard rumours of Robin Hood, everyone has. Robin is one of those mythic-sounding men whose tales seemed to reverberate from the very tress of the Enchanted Forest. "He's real then?"

A dimple appears briefly in Ana's right cheek and then she's serious again. "Yes, he's very real. And he's here, or… near."

Will nods, letting the information wash over him. Robin and his men are famed for their willingness to defy the cruellest rulers and landlords in the Enchanted Forest, stealing these men and women's wealth and giving it back to the poor. There was hardly a lad in the entire forest not born rich who hadn't spent an extended period of his childhood playing Robin Hood and King George with his friends. If Robin was half the thief legend made him out to be, he would be an invaluable ally. There is just one thing that still didn't make sense. "Why would he help us?"

"He steals from the rich and gives to the needy," Anastasia reminds him in a patient tone. "Maleficent is rich, and evil."

"And we're needy." Will finishes. It still doesn't seem quite right. The looking glass is a specific possession they want for their own ends, not exactly the kind of mission the selfless folk hero whose exploits many villages credit for their ability to pay taxes and feed their families would take on. But, then again, the stories are probably exaggerated. Certainly Robin Hood almost definitely paid protection money to villagers when he was in their area, but Will tells himself this doesn't mean Robin isn't just like every other thief or that he would turn down an opportunity to steal from Maleficent.

"We are _very_ needy." Anastasia whispers against his lips.

As much as Will would like to stand here all day kissing Anastasia, and he would like it very much, the light is starting to fade and he knows there is still work to be done if they want to eat tomorrow. Reluctantly he drops his arms and backs away. Picking up his hoe again, he turns back to work. "How do we find him?"

"He's been spotted less than ten miles from here." Ana perches on what remains of the garden fence and watches him work.

"So we just walk into his camp and announce that we think he should steal from Maleficent while he's in the region, and if he's feeling generous couldn't he please bring us back a magical looking glass?" Weeks of nothing but gardening and uncertainty combine to make Will's tone much crueller and more sarcastic than Anastasia deserves. He shoots her a guilt-ridden glance, but she doesn't even appear to have noticed.

"Of course not. We're not going to tell him what it is we're after." She picks at the edge of a fingernail thoughtfully. "Besides, everyone knows there are no women in Robin's gang. If you brought me along he would be instantly suspicious."

Will is surprised she would be willing to let him go into this alone. Not that Anastasia doesn't trust him, or let him be his own person, they probably spend half of their days apart between housework, hunting, and weekly visits to the village. What surprises him is that Ana, his precious little control freak, is willing to place the crux of the entire plan (at least Will thinks Robin Hood is probably the lynch pin) solely in Will's hands. "So I go in alone." He says at last.

Ana nods silently.

"And I tell him…?"

"Not the truth." Ana says sharply. "If he knows what you want to steal, or suspects why, he won't help you. He might even take it for himself."

Will nods. He doesn't like to jump to distrusting Robin, but he knows that Ana's plan is the safest, whether or not Robin is the type to steal his partner's prize. "How do I get him to help me if I don't tell him I need into the Forbidden Fortress?"

"You don't tell him anything." Ana says unhelpfully.

Will stares at her until she continues.

"You get into his crew, and then make a casual suggestion that you break in to the fortress and steal Maleficent's gold—"

"Gold?"

"She has an entire chest filled with it hidden in her main chamber. It's behind a hidden panel, so you should have a good excuse to separate from Robin and his men once you enter."

Despite the lingering concerns about robbing Maleficent and using one of his childhood heroes to do it, Will admits it is a well thought out plan. Maleficent is wealthy, everyone knows that, and a hidden chest of gold is exactly the kind of treasure the Robin Hood of boyhood fantasy would risk his life to acquire – especially from a tyrant like Maleficent. "Okay," he agrees, shoving aside lingering feelings of doubt. "I'll do it."

.

.

.

The next morning they are awake before dawn. Will dresses slowly, a sense of the enormity of the task he has agreed to undertake weighs heavily on his shoulders. He's done many crazy things in his seventeen years, but approaching Robin Hood and asking to join the Merry Men seems like the craziest of all. Even if Robin is everything the stories say, even if he became an outlaw when he was not much older than Will is now, even if his sole purpose in life is to help the oppressed, both in King George's kingdom and beyond, and even if he believes Will's tale, this is a long shot. It's been most of a year since Ana saw the looking glass, and even if Maleficent hasn't moved it, they have no way of knowing if it really does what she bragged about to Ana. Perhaps the old sorceress was simply toying with her young protégé.

That is Will's biggest fear. For though he knows he will cope with the disappointment, he isn't wild on the idea of leaving everything he knows for some strange land anyway, he thinks that Ana would rather let Maleficent kill her than live her whole life in fear. She hides it well, most days, but he sees it even though her smile. Anastasia is terrified. Every minute of every day there is a hint of fear deep in her eyes. It hurts Will to see it, because every time he does he remembers how helpless they are. He's stronger than many boys his age, but ultimately he is a seventeen year old poacher with little to recommend him and no skills that will keep him safe from Maleficent if she should descend upon their hiding place.

Anastasia watches Will from her place sitting on the bed. She hasn't bothered to dress. Wearing only her tunic, with her hair all tousled from sleep and the morning sun lighting it up like a halo she looks more innocent and more beautiful that he has ever seen her. Even with the tiny crease of worry between her brows that has faded but never disappeared in all the time they've been here.

"You're sure you'll be alright?" It's probably the seventh time since last night he's asked the question, but Ana doesn't even look annoyed when she nods and assures him that she will be perfectly safe in their little cottage.

"Thanks to you I know how to trap and skin a rabbit and I can catch trout in the stream if the rodents aren't taking the bait." She elaborates, rising to her feet to give him a farewell hug and kiss. "Besides, you'll be back in a couple of days."

Will kisses her soundly. "I love you."

"I love you too."

Heart heavy in his chest, Will turns and walks to the door. "See you soon." He calls and then he steps out into the morning.

According to the rumours Anastasia heard in the village the day before, Robin and his men should be camped in a hollow about ten miles from his and Anastasia's cabin. Will should be there just in time for lunch.

.

.

Robin Hood's camp is not as easy to find as Will had hoped. He's walked nearly fifteen miles and other than a few well situated snares that tell him a hunter has set up his operation here, Will can't seem to find a single sign of human life. Tracking humans isn't something he's had much practice in, but by Will's logic, it shouldn't be much different from looking for signs of animal runs. Actually, he thinks tracking humans should be easier, since most don't take much care for their surroundings when they move in nature. Plus, compared to the rabbits, muskrats, and other rodents Will usually tracks, humans are enormous.

By the time the sun begins to dip into the forest to the west, Will concludes that either Anastasia's intelligence was wrong and Robin and his Merry Men are far away, tormenting the rich and feeding the poor in quite another part of the Enchanted Forest; or, the band of thieves and their leader are actively trying not to be found. Either way, Will knows he won't find them by following hunter's trails through the woods. If they are not here, then it doesn't matter what he does, but if they are trying not to be found then his best option is to hope that they find him.

It's not much of a plan, as plans go it's really more of a non-plan, but Will decides it's worth a shot. He's brought sufficient supplies with him for a journey of three days before he would need to set up camp long enough to hunt for more food, so he will spend three days travelling as conspicuously as he dares and hope that Robin and his men mistake him for someone whose travels are worth impeding.

Decided on this course of action, Will angles to the east, aiming to reach the King's Road before sundown. The thought of travelling on such an open and well-travelled road is not a comforting one. Though he knows conspicuous travel is his best, or really his only, way of attracting the attention of the men he seeks – since they clearly do not want to be found by just anyone – the idea of purposefully drawing attention to himself fills Will with dread. For several months, ever since the night Ana showed up in tears at his mother's door, Will has been doing everything he can to be inconspicuous. He and Ana always travel to the village alone, and even then, they take a circuitous route and do their best to hide their identities.

They have never openly discussed all the reasons that Maleficent might decide to come after them, they are all too aware and talking would make no difference. If the sorceress decides that she wants to find her dead husband's bastard daughter, it won't take her more than a day – when Will is feeling optimistic he thinks they can hide out for a week, but he isn't optimistic today. For all he and Anastasia know, their every movement could have been tracked from the night she decided to run and he with her. It's thoughts like these that hurry his steps as he catches a glimpse of the King's Road through the trees. Their only hope is this new land that Anastasia tells him is on the other side of the looking glass. If they can get the looking glass and go through it to that land, they can start a new life together with no more looking over their shoulders. Anastasia won't have to bind up her breasts, hide her beautiful hair under a cap, and pretend to be a young boy selling firewood in the village. Will can walk with her, side by side, hand in hand, down a proper road without worrying someone will see.

This new land is to be their salvation, and if Will has to risk his neck to help them get there, he will. Although that doesn't stop him from wishing there might be an easier way.

.

.

.

"Today? Are you sure?" The taller man twists at his beard, a nervous habit he's had since long before he was able to grow hair anywhere but on his head – a place all three nurses he'd had while growing up had told him wouldn't have any hair left by the time he was grown if he insisted on twisting what was there so vehemently. They'd been wrong. Both the golden blonde locks on his head and his short, full beard were as lush as any man could wish, despite the infernal twisting, but since nearly everyone who had known him then was dead or thought him dead, he would never have a chance to tell them 'I told you so!'

"'Ay!" His companion replies. "Today, this very morning."

"By the King's Road." Another idle twist of the beard. He really is quite amazed at the news. He had expected it to take more than the six days they had been in the area to land a catch this big. "And you're certain it's him?"

Much crosses his arms across his chest, not dignifying the question with a response. Much is always sure, if not always _right_. It's Robin's favourite and least favourite thing about him all at once. Himself, he's never been one to think first and act later, which means he's almost never sure until after all the chips have settled, and even then he's only certain when everything goes as catastrophically wrong as it possibly could and he decides his rash decision had not, after all, been for the best.

"I'm sorry, Much." He mutters. "Come," he slaps his friend on the back, "let us tell the men."


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

The King's Road is too straight. It makes Will feel exposed to be able to see so far ahead of him. He wants instinctively to walk on the very edge of the road, so he can duck into the bushes if anyone should approach, but he doesn't. _The point is to be conspicuous_, he reminds himself. It doesn't make him feel better. He feels as if someone is watching him, but when he looks around him quickly there's nothing suspicious he can see. A lark sings in a nearby branch and he tells himself he's being paranoid. If there _was_ someone lurking in the bushes, tracking his movements, the birds would not be singing. Birds hate strangers even more than men on the run do. Still, it's hard not to be paranoid when he's half hoping to be caught while fully fearing it will be by the wrong people.

"Excuse me sir!"

Will whips around and bites back a decidedly un-masculine shriek as he comes face to face with a man with wild brown hair and the brightest green eyes Will has ever seen.

"Didn't mean to startle you, sir." The man flashes Will an obsequious smile and cuts a snide little bow. "Can you spare a copper for a poor man?"

Will takes in the man's pristine green shirt, cleanly shaven face and healthy build. He can feel his eyebrows creeping upwards towards his hairline. He is no physician, but Will knows as well as any person who has gone weeks on end on nothing but root broth what poverty looks like. This man is far from poor. "When I see one, perhaps." He responds flippantly, turning and continuing on his way down the road.

Or, he tries to continue down the road. Faster even than this strange man with the startling green eyes had leapt from the bushes a sword flashed before his eyes. "Not one more step if you please."

Will turns more slowly this time. He clenches his jaw and swallows his fear. "I haven't _got_ any copper." He forces out between his teeth.

"Come now, Mister Wilkes" a new voice, smooth like honey and clearly well-bred speaks from Will's side, "we both know that when a man asks for your copper, he'll happily take your gold too. Now hand it over."

_Wilkes_? The name sounds familiar but it takes Will several silent seconds to place it. When he does his heart starts to pound, from excitement more than fear. Wilkes is the clothier in the nearest village. A notorious scoundrel, according to Anastasia who pays more attention to gossip than Will, with a mistress in every town from here to the Forbidden Mountains and a schedule to visit them that a man could set his clock by. If these men were waiting for Wilkes they could only be… "Robin Hood," Will says in his most authoritative voice, turning so he can see the second man.

When Will sees the group of five men standing in a half circle blocking the Kings Road, instead of the one he was expecting, his throat constricts with a sudden burst of fear. These are definitely the men he's been looking for, but they're hardly the stuff of his childhood fantasies. Apart from the well-kept man with the green eyes who first accosted him, and the man he is pretty sure is Robin – with his full blonde beard, brown tunic and care darkened eyes – they are a sorry lot. From the large man tapping a heavy club rhythmically against a ham-sized hand to a slender man with a face that puts Will in mind of a rat they look universally sinister and unkempt, the kind of men that if you saw one coming towards down a dark alley, even if it were the middle of the day, your first instinct would be to quickly turn and walk back the way you had come. For the first time he doubts Anastasia's plan. How on earth is he, a seventeen year old poacher's son with little to recommend him apart from a reasonable talent for poaching and pickpocketing, and a quick brain for Maths supposed to convince Robin that he belongs in this gang, let alone that the group should undertake to steal from Maleficent's palace.

Robin smiles easily. "You have heard of me. How flattering!"

"I was looking for you." Will says, trying and failing to match Robin's cheerful expression and casual tone. He knows he sounds like a scared youth putting on a false bravado, but there's little that can be done about that now.

"Looking for me?" Robin tilts his head to one side as if to better assess Will. After a moment spent assessing Will's form from head to foot and back again, Robin flicks his eyes over to the first man. "Much, did you really think this was Wilkes?"

"Caroline said—"

"Caroline?!" Robin's eyes narrow. Much has been his closest friend and ally for nearly twenty years, but Robin fears he will never fully understand him. "Your intelligence came from Caroline." He says her name in a flat sort of voice that matches the disappointment he feels at their failed mission.

Much colours. He knows how Robin feels about Caroline. It's the same way Robin feels about all of the women Much has become 'acquainted' with since they returned from war and took to a life of banditry nearly seven years ago. _Saint Robin _Much sometimes calls him. The nickname fits. For a man who leads a life of crime, Robin is holier than many priests in Much's acquaintance. Still, Much has never known a better friend and, for all he detests Robin's preaching, Much would follow his friend into the jaws of the devil herself.

"He generally does, you know." Will suddenly interjected, interrupting the silent exchange between Much and Robin.

"I'm sorry?" Robin says at the exact moment Much asks "What?"

Will rolls his eyes, a gesture he's picked up from Ana. "Wilkes dresses like a peasant when he visits his mistress Sally two villages over." He is going to have to apologize to Anastasia for ragging her about her love of village gossip when he returns. Though he doesn't see how he could have known, or been expected to know, that the knowledge of who Mister Wilkes the clothier was cheating on his wife with would be his ticket into the Merry Men.

"And you know this how?" Robin looks more suspicious than curious. "Unless you are, in fact, Mister Wilkes."

Will snorts. "Mister Wilkes is a man of thirty six. And I know for the same reason your man's Caroline knows, because _everyone_ knows." Or so Will assumes. The kind of information Ana brings back is usually the central topics of town gossip. They aren't exactly in a position to acquire more than the snatches of information bandied about in the market place. Friends are a risk they cannot afford. "He isn't the most discreet of scoundrels, you understand." He adds an extra bite to the last bit. He knows it's not exactly politic to insult someone you hope will hire you, but he can't help it. He's nervous, and a nervous Will is a sarcastic Will.

"So where is Mister Wilkes now, then?" Robin crosses his arms across his chest and rocks back on his heels. "If Much's Caroline was right, why are you here and he _not_ here?"

"It's Thursday." Will says, as if that should be self-evident. Thursdays were Wilkes' day to visit Morwena, Maleficent's cook, on the forbidden mountain.

He can tell Robin is getting impatient by the deepening crease between the man's eyebrows. "And?"

"Wilkes only ever visits Sally on Saturdays, when Mildred is visiting her sister with the children." Will replies, still using a tone that could only be described as condescending.

"Much," Robin's tone is dangerous,.

"Caroline said today," Much says with a helpless shrug. He's a careful man most of the time, but Caroline had been so sure that he had taken her at her word. He knows there will be a reckoning later, when it is just him and Robin. There is always a reckoning when Robin remembers Much's dalliances, but never so vehement a cutting down as when one of these dalliances interferes with their 'mission; – an occurrence that is not as rare as Much would wish.

"So we must wait until Saturday then," one of the other men speaks up. He tilts his head in a wordless signal and all but Robin and Much follow him back towards the woods.

Robin watches them go and then turns back on Will. "You said you were looking for us?"

Will nods, suddenly at a loss for words.

"Why?"

"I-I want to help you, become one of your Merry Men." Will stammers out, cursing himself for sounding like a child rather than the confident man he wants Robin to see him as.

Robin laughs, full and rich as if Will has uttered the most hilarious joke he has ever heard. It's a joyful sound, contagious, like the laugh of an unspoiled child and if Will hadn't been the object of laughter he might have joined in, but as it was he crossed his arms over his chest and glares. "What is your name, sir?"

"Will Scarlet." Will answers, heart in his throat. The smile on Robin's face is genuine and for a moment Will thinks he just might not have ruined his chances, despite his condescending tone earlier.

"This is a dangerous life, Master Scarlet. I don't take on children."

Then again, maybe he had.

Will clenches his teeth. He's seventeen and a half, hardly a child. True, most of Robin's crew is older, but Robin himself can't be much older than twenty-five. He's certainly not an old man. It's exactly Robin's youth that made him think Anastasia's plan might actually work. "I'm older than I look." He says, hoping that he won't actually have to lie, but fully prepared to add a few years to his age if he needs to in order to gain a place in Robin's circle.

"You'd have to be twice the age you look for me to take you on, lad. I'm sorry."

"I'm not asking you to take me on," Will says belligerently. "I can take care of myself, been doing so for years. I want to be part of your mission."

Robin's brow raised. "And what mission would that be?"

"To help people like my mother." Will doesn't know where those words came from exactly, but then they hit his ears they ring true. He hasn't let himself think much about what he left behind, but when his mind drifts homewards it's always on the same theme: is mother alright? He knows she will have an easier time financially without a second mouth to feed, but he also knows how much his poaching allowed them to stretch her meagre income. Without it, would she be able to make ends meet? And if not, what would become of her? Maleficent is not a forgiving woman.

Robin narrows his eyes and assesses Will for a few seconds. "I can't take you on lad, but there's no harm I suppose in sending you home with a good meal and a little something for that mother of yours."

Much opens his mouth to protest, but shuts it again silently at one look from Robin. He's in enough trouble already for Caroline without fighting Robin over the boy. Feeling mutinous, he falls into step behind them as Robin leads the way back to their camp.


End file.
